


We All Fall Down

by A_M_Kelley



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Confessions, Creepy Fluff, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Ephebophilia, Growing Up, Guilt, Hebephilia, Hurt/Comfort, I willfully ignore the existence of Harry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kid John, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Violence, Murder, Pedophilia, Please Don't Hate Me, Puberty, Regret, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Teen John, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_M_Kelley/pseuds/A_M_Kelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock knows exactly why he always finds himself coming back to this particular bench in this particular park. The reason is young and energetic and running around the jungle gym carelessly. It is clambering up small stairs and giggling as it slides all the way down smooth plastic.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He wants to look away out of shame and guilt but the temptation is too much to tear his eyes from the young boy climbing all over the jungle gym, unaware of the eyes that observe him openly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sherlock tries not to be the bad guy but it's rather difficult when he doesn't have any say in the matter. He never asked to be born this way and he's not proud of it, but the fact still remains that this is who he is and this is what he likes. As sick as it sounds.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There really aren't many stories like this (for good reasons) but I was really hoping to capture this subject from a different angle. From a viewpoint that we rarely see. In any kind of media, really, do we rarely see someone with Sherlock's condition trying to better themselves and hating what they are.
> 
> Every time someone comments I'm half expecting them to release their venom on me (which is completely understandable considering the subject matter) but really, I'm glad to see people support this story and idea so much. It's a really uncomfortable subject for me to write personally, mostly because it's a tender topic and it scares a lot of people (and it really should) but it's also real. It's a real problem in society and it exists whether you want it to or not (and I really hope not). But I think it's important to deal with controversial topics that get a lot of criticism. It gives us a chance to try and understand why people are the way they are without losing sight of our morals.
> 
> So I just really want to thank everyone reading who leaves civil comments and sees this story for what it really is. Because at first glance, yes, it's obviously about pedophilia but people often look past the fact that it's really about wanting to be "normal" and the ability to change. I encourage and enthuse people to be disgusted and repulsed but I also urge you to be sympathetic and pity the main character's ordeal and struggle.
> 
> There is always someone out there who is sick, but trying to get better.
> 
> Sorry for rambling and scaring you away, but I really think it's important to have a foreword (considering the theme) so you can understand and decide for yourselves if you really want to read this. Please proceed at your own volition and thank you for reading...

Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself because he isn't. Well, in some ways he had a lot to be proud of, like his job or his gift of observation. But there were certain aspects about himself that were enough to even make him feel a little ashamed about.

He knew he could be selfish at times, only helping others when it suited his fancy and uncaring of how it affected the people around him. Sherlock wasn't the most compassionate or sympathetic person either and it put a heavy strain on his chances of making any friends in the future. But Sherlock wasn't interested in friends or compassion...

Which is why he often found himself sitting alone in a park that was just down the street from his flat. Sherlock came around a lot but no one ever seemed to pay him much attention. No one cared, or noticed for that matter, because it was common to see people sitting by themselves. They usually came around to clear their head or simply relax.

Sherlock never came here for either of those reasons, though he wish he had. It was almost nearly impossible for Sherlock to get clutter-minded with his thoughts, so coming up with a good lie to justify why he came here was rather difficult. He hadn't come for the birds or the air. Air was everywhere so what made it any different over here?

No... Sherlock knows exactly why he always finds himself coming back to this particular bench in this particular park. The reason is young and energetic and running around the jungle gym carelessly. It is clambering up small stairs and giggling as it slides all the way down smooth plastic.

He wants to look away out of shame and guilt but the temptation is too much to tear his eyes from the young boy climbing all over the jungle gym, unaware of the eyes that observe him openly. It's an act that could warrant caution for any passers-by but there's no one else around, save for a few other children and their mothers chatting away at a nearby table. Sherlock can tell that they're not even paying attention.

 _But they really should,_ Sherlock muses to himself.

Because there are people like him lurking around. Sherlock's not a predator and he's well aware of what's right and wrong, which is why he never acts upon his urges. He knows watching is no better or acceptable but Sherlock honestly feels like this is doing no harm. Nobody has to know what he's thinking about when he stares at boys and nobody has to get hurt.

Sherlock tries not to be the bad guy but it's rather difficult when he doesn't have any say in the matter. He never asked to be born this way and he's not proud of it, but the fact still remains that this is who he is and this is what he likes. As sick as it sounds. There's just no way of justifying his attraction to younger boys, namely the one he's been watching for some time now.

He's a tiny little thing so it's hard for Sherlock to pinpoint his exact age but if he had to guess he'd say somewhere between ten and thirteen. Somewhere above ten for sure. Sherlock made it a habit to draw the line at that age because he was trying to get better and be normal so he could like adults his own age, but it was rough. His mind wanders off elsewhere before he can distinguish what's good and what's bad.

The boy has big ears that poke out of his mop of blonde hair and a long nose that's big for any boy his age, but Sherlock finds his subtle mousy features all the more adorable. He's sporting a striped jumper with shorts and a rather worn pair of tennis shoes. Sherlock also notices that he's all alone because he never breaks off to play with the other kids and there are only three mothers nearby, assuming each of them has a kid.

It's not really important to Sherlock but he notices it nevertheless. It's not like he's plotting to do something irrational or try to "make a move" so to speak, he just can't get over the fact that this poor boy is by himself. Playing alone, no friends... Much like Sherlock, but this kid is smiling and happy like a hedgehog in a hole. _How can he be so happy when he's all alone?_

Sherlock is so good at figuring people out but when it comes to emotions he has no clue. But Sherlock decides that children have a lot of silly reasons to be happy. They could see a butterfly and their day would be off to a great start. The promise of ice cream alone is enough to make them hyper, but that's somewhat understandable. Kids want fun and sugar. Plain and simple.

There is a momentary lapse in Sherlock's musings when someone walks by and he pretends to not be gawking towards the playground, but it only makes him more guilty looking. No one seems to notice this, though. Sherlock is quite transparent and he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. The mothers really should be paying more attention, then again Sherlock shouldn't be here indulging in his illness.

The blonde boy comes trotting around near where Sherlock is sitting, hair bouncing with each heavy footfall, and trips over his goofy feet when a shoelace comes undone. Sherlock watches the kid do a face plant into the concrete walkway, but the kid's face is unharmed and his attention is elsewhere because he's scraped his knee from the fall.

He immediately collects himself to clutch at his knee with a sour looking grimace but despite the obvious pain and sight of blood the kid doesn't whine or shed a tear. Sherlock feels the need to help him, comfort him in some way, but that is wishful thinking. But then the boy pushes out his bottom lip and looks directly over at Sherlock, whether it's on purpose or accident is a whole other story.

Suddenly, Sherlock feels put on the spot since this kid is looking to the first friendly face he sees, asking silently for help, and who is Sherlock to deny him assistance? Without thinking it any further through, Sherlock pushes himself up from the bench and stalks over to where the blonde boy is on the ground, clutching at his wound.

Sherlock's tall and looming figure eclipses the sun to cast his long shadow over the boy. The kid looks up slowly, almost cautiously, and stares at him with puppy eyes that shimmer with a sliver of trust. The man is tall and slender with black hair, a dark coat, and a purple scarf. Sherlock thinks the kid has poor judgment in making allies, but he kneels down beside the kid nevertheless to stoop to his level.

"Nasty little fall you took there," Sherlock observes, clasping his hands together as he looks over to the mothers and other children who remain completely oblivious. "What's your name?"

"John Watson, sir," the boy says respectfully, staring at the adult from under his lashes meekly.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he tells John as he sticks his hand out. John's significantly smaller hand grasps his and they shake awkwardly a few times, but John smiles and laughs a little. "What?"

"You have a silly name," John giggles sweetly and Sherlock should be a little offended but John's face lights up, seeming to forget about the pain in his knee.

"Well, you have a silly nose," Sherlock remarks playfully as he taps the tip of John's long nose.

John doesn't take it to heart but rather giggles even more, which is a good sign because Sherlock meant no offense by it. His nose was adorable. This seems to break the ice a little and John is no longer shy or cautious, letting his smile shine bright.

"Are you alright, John Watson?" Sherlock asks after the laughter dies down a little.

Sherlock reaches out to move one of John's hands out of the way to see how badly skinned his boney knee is. Not too gruesome or bloody but it still looks painful and Sherlock thinks he can see the irritated skin throbbing from here. John lets Sherlock look him over for a for more seconds.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asks after his first question goes unanswered, prodding at the area around the wound. John winces slightly when Sherlock prods too close. "Sorry..."

"It's alright, Mr. Holmes. It doesn't hurt too badly," John promises with a small smile.

"Does this happen often then?" Sherlock inquires, observing a week old scab on one of John's pointy elbows.

"Yeah, sometimes on accident. Most of the time on purpose," John admits and Sherlock gives him a funny look. "I want to be a doctor when I grow up so I need all the practice I can get."

Sherlock chuckles deeply at the kid's rather silly logic, but he finds it quite endearing.

"You seem a little young to be making decisions like that," Sherlock eggs on slightly, indirectly asking for John's age, and it works.

"I'm not that young! I'm thirteen!" John protests like the child he is but Sherlock gives him an unconvinced smirk. John sighs, "Alright, I'm eleven..."

"Are you sure?",Sherlock questions, rustling John's blonde hair playfully. "You're rather short for a boy who's almost in secondary."

John swats Sherlock's hand away with a frustrated little giggle, hating being treated like a kid but finding it heart warming that an adult can be so cool and just as playful. And this news makes Sherlock wonder why John is letting a stranger get in his space and talk to him.

"Mum says I just haven't hit my growth spurt yet," John tells Sherlock, crossing his arms across his chest in frustration.

"I'm sure she's right," Sherlock agrees, smiling down at John. "Speaking of your mum, where is she? Shouldn't she be watching you and tending to your boo boos?"

"She works, sir," John mumbles with a forlorn frown, hugging his injured leg. "But I can take care of myself just fine!"

"Oh, yes, of course! You're practically an adult now!" Sherlock is purposefully mocking John but not in a snotty way. He's playing at reverse psychology to peek the kid's interest further.

"Well, since you're a kid I guess you won't be needing this," Sherlock brushes off with nonchalance as he conveniently hides something colorful and wrapped in plastic.

John's eyebrows quirk and his eyes follow the movement, his curiosity stirring as he tries to get sight of what Sherlock is hiding from him. John reaches out to pull Sherlock's hand out in hopes of seeing what he has but is too late.

"Oi! What have you got?" John moans, put off by the fact he was denied something sweet.

"Oh, it's nothing..." Sherlock assures, tucking away the small object and making the plastic crinkle.

"You've got sweets!" John exclaims as he comes to the realization.

"Just a lolly and it's hardly any good for an adult such as yourself..."

John's lips purse together as he pouts petulantly, showing just how much of a child he still is, and Sherlock chuckles at the notion. Seeming somewhat satisfied with himself Sherlock relents and pulls the lolly out of his coat, handing it over to John who snatches it hastily, afraid that the adult might change his mind. It's a sick game Sherlock plays but he can't help it.

John rips the wrapper off and latches his mouth onto the lollipop like one of those fish that sticks to the walls of a fish tank. Sherlock beams a warm smile as he watches John's face light up with wonder. His mousy features range from wonder to excitement to delight and judging by the faces John makes Sherlock is sure John is happy.

There's a pang in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, a twinge that makes him feel nauseous and guilty all along his body. _Too far,_ Sherlock scolds himself. _Too far._ He doesn't have any ulterior motives but his intentions aren't precisely pure either. Sherlock is keeping some sort of wall between John and himself and he's trying to limit physical contact.

Sherlock isn't afraid of losing control. He has great impulse control, especially when it comes to matters like this. But he's afraid that someone will mistake his kindness as perversion. He's trying to get better but it doesn't really help that he's still coming around here to watch boys like John play.

"You seem rather anxious to grow up," Sherlock observes, brushing a few strands of blonde hair out of John's face. "Why is that?"

John stops sucking on the lollipop and pulls it out to answer Sherlock.

"This is my last summer before I go off to secondary school," John explains to him almost sadly. John's face takes on a dreadful shade of white, paling at his next words. "My mum's ill and she thinks I don't know... I need to be big for her and hurry up so I can help her. I can't do that when I'm small..."

Sherlock didn't think it would touch his heart but it did. Here was this kid who was purposely hurting himself and intent on growing up so he can become a doctor to help his ill mum. The same mum that worked for a living and had hardly anytime to spend with her child, from what John had told him.

"It's not that I want to grow up, Mr. Holmes... But I don't have much of a choice anymore..."

John's bottom lip trembled ever so slightly and before Sherlock could think rationally or stop himself, he reached out to wrap his arms around the young boy, adjusting his squatting position to a kneel. He collected John in his arms and let him cling to his shoulders. It was far too intimate and lingered a little too long but Sherlock's mind was clear on this one. He was doing this for John, not himself.

"It's alright now, John. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be angry or any other feelings you might be experiencing," Sherlock murmurs into the side of John's blonde hair. He rubs a hand up and down John's back, trying his best to sooth the young boy. "We all fall. Sometimes we get back up and dust ourselves off but sometimes we stay down."

Sherlock pulls away from John, letting his hands cup John's face and lingering too long. Sherlock looks directly into John's eyes and shows him something he thought he was never capable of: compassion. John's eyes are icy and frozen over with tears that dare to spill down his cheeks but refrains from letting go, because he _needs_ to be strong.

"The only thing you can do now is dust yourself off and show your mum just how much you love her before she falls, John. Do you understand?" Sherlock asks as his big hands hold up John's head. John nods, letting just a few tears cascade down his rosey cheeks.

"Yes, sir."

"Now run home," Sherlock tells the boy, nodding his head off into a random direction. "When your mum comes home, hug her tight and don't let go. She needs a son now more than ever. Not a doctor."

There is some realization in Sherlock's words that John seems to understand, like reality has finally hit him. His mum can not be saved no matter what doctor she has and the only thing she wants is company before she goes. John sniffles and nods shakily, finding this bitter news hard to swallow but accepting it all the same.

Sherlock lets go of John's face and stands up, looming over John like before, to offer a hand to the boy. John takes Sherlock's hand and lets himself be pulled up onto his shaky feet, feeling the dull ache in his knee when he does. John smoothes out his trousers and looks up to Sherlock to give him a faint smile.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John beams brightly despite the somewhat somber underlining emotions.

"You're welcome, Dr. Watson," Sherlock grins back, rustling the blonde mop of hair one last time before John sticks his lollipop back in his mouth and takes off for his home.

Sherlock would never admit to being proud of himself, but this was a start.


	2. John: Ages 13 -15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at John's life surrounding his mother's passing and puberty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter might be a little boring or slow, but a while back some people said they felt like John needed a little back story.

John was thirteen when his mother finally passed away.

The service itself was nice enough considering their financial setbacks and it cut a great deal into John's college fund, but John didn't care about that at the moment. It was also a fairly sunny day for the most part, not that John would have minded the rain. John didn't have an extensive family either, so it was only a handful of people, mostly friends and colleagues.

He didn't cry when sweet Mrs. Hudson walked him up to her casket to see her one last time and he didn't cry when they lowered her into the ground. It wasn't that he didn't love his mother because he did, but the truth was that John had no more tears to shed. His mother had suffered for so long that by the time she did pass, John was already so accustomed to the overwhelming idea of death that it no longer affected him.

John felt horrible for not crying, but Mrs. Hudson simply patted him on the back and said that it was normal to feel drained of all emotion. Somehow that made John feel less guilty, even if it was just something adults said to make him feel normal. He was sure Mrs. Hudson meant it sincerely, though. She was always looking out for him.

By the time John's mother was lowered fully into the ground, the top of her casket collected a small bouquet of red and white roses. John went first and was the only person who had one of each rose. Everyone silently took their time to drop their own little sentiment, murmuring sweet words to wherever she may be now.

It was Mrs. Hudson who dropped the first handful of dirt into her grave because John, despite being permitted to, declined. It symbolized the act of finally letting go but John wasn't ready for that and he didn't know when that time would come, if ever. He hoped some day he'd be able to get stronger from this and there was no time like the present, as Mrs. Hudson would say.

"Everything will be fine, dear," Mrs. Hudson assures, curling an arm around John's small frame and squeezing one of his shoulders. "Your mother would want you to be strong now, John. You need to be brave. She wouldn't want this to tear you apart."

One by one the attendants started to take their leave as John's mother's grave was filled, sealing the earth once again. Mrs. Hudson stood there next to John as they watched in somber acquiesce as his mother took her final departure from this world. John wondered where she would go now, if anywhere, and if she was at peace. In the end, there was no way of telling.

Shortly after the service took place, John was sent to live with Mrs. Hudson by request of his late mother. There were no other places for John to go and even if there had been, John would still choose to live with Mrs. Hudson. She was essentially a second mother to him to begin with and John didn't trust many people, especially at this time in his life.

The move had been in another part of the city which meant John would also switch schools but he didn't mind this transition much. John wouldn't be leaving many friends behind anyway, but there were kids he considered to be acquaintances.

Mrs. Hudson did care for him like he was her own son and she often spent time bonding with John. Mrs. Hudson was firm but fair, assigning John chores and the like in order to keep him a well-mannered young man. John didn't mind though since it helped take focus off of his mother. He was given a reasonable bedtime and Mrs. Hudson always made sure he was fed right.

All in all, it was a much needed fresh start to occupy him and John endured it like a man.

It was obvious John would have to be a man now, seeing as how he was forced to grow up faster since his mother had passed. John needed to be everything that a man was. Mrs. Hudson found this to be a little silly though, going so far as to tell John that his mother would want him to be happy and have fun while he still could.

John wanted to have fun, he really did, but it made him feel guilty to think of having fun without his mother. It was ridiculous, of course, but John was just like that. He thought too much about putting others before himself, a trait his mother always admired, but that didn't mean it was essentially _just_ a good thing.

The guilt was lightened, though, by a boy John met at his new school. His name was Andy Galbraith and, like John, he was a light-hearted sort of person full of compassion. He was also soft-spoken and rather awkward. A lot of people accounted this to Andy being taller than anyone else in the class, but this wasn't the case. Andy wasn't clumsy, he just got easily flustered by talking to most people.

_"Hi," Andy said one day with a timid smile, shuffling from foot to foot._

_John looked up from his book to gaze at the owner of the shadow that had obscured his sunlight.Andy was quite lanky for his age, being only thirteen like John, and he had a mop of curly brown hair that looked as if he just had it recently cut. John noticed that Andy was the only other kid not playing._

_"What are you reading?" Andy asks curiously, voice wavering slightly._

_"Animal Farm," John replies, holding his book up to show Andy._

_"So you're a fan of Orwell?" Andy gushes as he lights up with interest. He trots over, curls bouncing as he does, and sits next to John. "I happen to be quite fond of Ninety Eighty-Four myself. I've read it at least six times."_

_"You talk an awful lot for someone so quiet," John quips with a cheeky smile._

_"I'm sorry," Andy apologizes with a blush. "I just get really excited about my favorite authors."_

_"I was only kidding. You can talk all you want," John assures him, sticking his hand out towards the other boy. "John Watson."_

_"Andy Galbraith," he reciprocates with an ardent smile, beaming at John's kindness._

_"So, what other authors do you like?"_

John was kind and treated him no different than anyone else which prompted Andy to stick to him like glue. It was easy being friends with someone who'd rather listen than talk, but that's not to say they never talked. Andy had a lot to say some of the time, but he preferred it when John did most of the talking.

John always had stories to tell and Andy would listen intently to all of them. Most of the stories featured holidays with his mum and the occasional mishap here and there around the house, but they were truly something special when John told them. John even told Andy of his mother's passing and this inevitably induced sympathy on Andy's part.

As the school year went on, John realized that talking about his mother with Andy wasn't as depressing as he previously thought it would be. John imagined recalling all those stories and memories would have made things more gloomy, but it did the exact opposite. It not only gave John the chance to vent but it also reminded him of all the wonderful moments he had with his mother.

_"Everyone dies, John," Andy had told him once, putting a comforting hand on his arm. "But that doesn't mean our memories have to fade along with them. Some things truly are immortal in a way."_

It was possibly the most insightful thing John had ever heard on the subject of his mother's death and John was glad Andy was the one to point this out. But he was right. John's mother was physically gone but her presence was all around him every moment of the day, even when he wasn't thinking of her. This epiphany made Andy more profound and beautiful in John's eyes.

It wasn't until John was fourteen and in his third year of Secondary did he start to notice Andy more. Andy had hit puberty the year before with subtlety but now the signs started to show in John as well. It initially started when John was feeling more anxious than he had before and many kids had complained about, and even made fun of, his body odor. John was a relatively hygienic kid, so this was news to him.

But what really scared John was the fact that he found spending time with Andy had turned into walking on eggshells. John's voice would crack all the time, and so did Andy's, but John was more self-conscious about it. He would also catch himself staring at Andy, as well as other boys in their class.

Sometimes Andy would unconsciously brush against John while they were having lunch or spending time together after school and it made John feel so many things at once. It made him feel nervous, excited, apprehensive, and even queasy. His stomach would twist into knots whenever he thought of Andy or stared at him for too long.

Of course John had learned all about puberty in sex education but it had been black and white. Everyone was different, sure, but no one ever talked about what happens when you like someone of the same gender. John wasn't sure if the same rules applied. It's times like this that he wishes his mother were here to help him figure this out.

Asking Mrs. Hudson appeared to be out of the question. John was sure she had an open mind about things like that but he was ultimately too embarrassed to ask her. But in the end it started to seem inevitable as his preoccupation with boys, namely Andy, grew to have a deeper effect on his body.

John distinctly remembers one night in which he couldn't fall asleep because he became too restless while thinking of how Andy looked earlier that day. They had played football in PE today, and while John was fairly good, the same could not be said for Andy. Despite his advantage in height and stride, Andy was quite uncoordinated and often stumbled over his own feet every time he tried to run and kick the ball along.

His kit was covered in mud and grass stains by the end of it all and John could do nothing but look on in pity over his dear friend. Once they were in the locker room, however, John realized now that he was filthy he'd have to take a shower. While that was perfectly fine, John knew that having Andy standing next to him naked was not okay.

John was suddenly apprehensive of the idea of getting undressed in front of the other boys. Andy on the other hand had to rinse off regardless of any hang ups he might have. John couldn't help but watch Andy undress out of the corner of his eye. He was genuinely curious about how Andy's body might be changing as well as how it would make John feel if he stole a peek.

Andy was awkward looking with his knobby joints and pale skin, but somehow this was _surprisingly okay_ to John. He was an inch or two taller than the previous year but other than that Andy was mostly likely done growing in height. John was still small but Mrs. Hudson had assured him he would grow into his new body eventually.

He noticed that Andy's face started to break out a little as well. John took into account that Andy had armpit hair now but still had no luck with chest hair. John didn't get much more after that since he immediately looked away before Andy could take his shorts off.

But later that night when sleep finally caught up with John, he dreamt of what would have happened if he hadn't looked away. John's vivid imagination took him through all the possibilities of what Andy might have looked like completely bare and when he woke up the next morning, John found his sheets to be soaked.

It had genuinely caused John to become distressed and he jumped out of bed with damp pajamas clinging to him. He bounded out his bedroom door, calling out to Mrs. Hudson with fervent pleas to rouse awake. He stood in her doorway, fidgeting as she slowly came to, demanding an explanation. John was rambling, gesturing towards his room and urging Mrs. Hudson to hurry.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson gasped softly when she came to see what the fuss was about.

"I swear I used the toilet before I went to bed," John whined skeptically when she stared dumbfounded at the stained sheets.

"I'm sure you did, dear," Mrs. Hudson consoled, patting John on the back. "Why don't we get you some fresh sheets and clothes and talk about it, okay?"

It was safe to say that after Mrs. Hudson had explained it to him that he no longer felt alone on the matter. Mrs. Hudson had referred to him as different, but perfectly normal. The fact that Mrs. Hudson said liking boys was normal at his age seemed to make him feel less anxious. But it wasn't fair.

John should be getting this talk from his mother and not Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Mrs. Hudson but his mother should be here right now, watching him grow and helping him with his problems. Still, John had someone to watch after him and he didn't intend on taking that for granted.

Either way, it didn't stop John from worrying about how he felt about Andy.

Things started to even out when they turned Fifteen, though. John finally grew a few inches but he was still considerably shorter than some kids. John's body was now growing into itself as Mrs. Hudson had said and his voice was evening out a little as well. But they were becoming more defined now, growing awkwardly into manhood and learning how to deal with certain urges.

It was in this school year when kids started to mature marginally. Some of the boys had girlfriends that they basically paraded around to seem cool, but never kissed or went out with. Some boys even began shaving. Andy and John weren't in either of these two categories, however.

John wouldn't say that he minded this much, but he did feel a little left out from everyone else. Funny how John never felt he was growing up fast enough. John felt as if he was letting his mother down, but he had to remember everyone grew at their own pace. It wasn't until the middle of the school year when John experienced his first kiss.

_"I have the most important thing to tell you," Andy exclaimed, running up to John one morning before school._

_"What?" John asked at a loss as he was spun around._

_Andy was grinning wide like he had come to an epiphany and grabbed John enthusiastically by the shoulders. John's bobbled around as Andy slightly shook him. Andy opened his mouth but his smile faltered and he looked around like he was paranoid, seeing if anyone was close enough to hear._

_"I can't tell you here," Andy whispers like it's a secret and lets go of John so no one thinks they're up to something. "Come follow me."_

_John complies and follows Andy behind the small storage building just off the side of the entrance to the school. John looks behind him a few times to make sure none of the other kids are following and it makes him feel just as suspicious as Andy. John comes to a stop when Andy turns to face him, prompting more suspense from the shorter one._

_"Well, what is it?" John inquires, wanting to know now more than ever since Andy's making a big deal about it._

_"I saw Philip kissing that horrid Sally Donovan yesterday!" Andy gushes in a mild tone, still weary of keeping his voice down._

_"Yuck! Really?" John exclaims loudly, genuinely shocked._

_This prompts Andy to lunge forward and slap a hand over John's mouth, unconsciously pushing him into the wooden wall of the storage shed. John couldn't help his outburst because kissing a girl was kind of a big deal at their school and to think that Anderson of all people kissed before they did..._

_"Shh!" Andy chides with panic, eyebrows shooting up into his curls. "Do you want someone to hear?"_

_"Sod it!" John scoffs, pushing Andy off of him, mostly because his face started to heat up with excitement. "No one is listening."_

_"What does it feels like?" Andy asks, searching John's face for an explanation._

_"What? Kissing?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"How should I know?" John admits with a shrug of his shoulder, straightening out his school blazer and tie. "I haven't been kissed yet."_

_"Yeah... Me neither," Andy agrees, stepping off a little and resorting to sticking his hands in his pockets and fidgeting with his feet. "We should try it!"_

_"What girl would want to kiss us?" John complains neutrally, assuming that Andy prefers girls over boys, unlike John._

_"That's not really what I had in mind," Andy confesses, blushing when John stares at him like a deer caught in headlights. Andy grabs John's hand and steps closer to him. "It still counts if we do it."_

_"But isn't that wrong?" John asks, testing Andy's composure and stalling for time. As much as he wants to kiss Andy, the idea still scares him._

_"Do you think it's wrong?" Andy retorts._

_"Well, no..."_

_"Then what's stopping you?" Andy taunts playfully, growing more bold by the second. "Kiss me."_

_John takes this as a challenge but he can see that Andy is just as nervous. It's all in the eyes. He doesn't know what to do, becoming more and more flustered as Andy stands there, waiting for him to make a move. John stands up on the tips of his toes, willing himself to be as tall as Andy and nearly succeeding._

_Andy immediately, and quite comically, squeezes his eyes shut and puckers his lips in anticipation. John lets his eyes flutter shut as well and he leans forward until his lips touch Andy's. The sensation itself is rather weird, but that's probably because neither of them move or slacken their lips, opting to keep them tightly pursed._

_The kiss lasts for an ungodly amount of time, but neither Andy nor John seem to mind that much. When they finally part from each other both are pink faced and squirming in their shoes as if they're struggling to keep the awkward arousal at bay. Andy doesn't let go of John's hand, though, and they stand there in silence until the bell eventually chimes._

John had always imagined running home and telling his mum all about his first kiss. She would wittily press him for details and comment on how much of a man he's becoming, but he's aware this is just a fantasy now. John figures that it ultimately doesn't matter.

He knows his mother would be proud of him regardless.


	3. 8 Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's eight years later and Sherlock needs a change of scenery but this only seems to make matters worse when his long forgotten past catches up with him.

** Eight Years Later **

It's a curious thing how fate works, but Sherlock has never been too keen on stuff like that. He wouldn't exactly call it destiny because that would imply once again that it was fate. Sherlock wouldn't go as far as to call it coincidence either but whatever it was it knocked him right off of his feet and slapped him across the face. But he's getting ahead of himself...

His day had started off normal enough, if not a little dull. Sherlock had no case or anything of importance to tend to, though he had many offers from Mycroft. He wasn't interested in doing Mycroft's dirty work no matter how bored he was and he always loved the look of contempt that usually followed soon after. At least that was able to brighten up Sherlock's day a little, if only momentarily.

"You must keep yourself more occupied, brother dear," Mycroft had chided him in that familiar taunt he's managed to keep up to par all these years. "God knows what measures you'll go through to sate your boredom."

"You never took an active interest in my personal life before. Why all of a sudden?" Sherlock had replied, perhaps a little too defensive, but the way Mycroft had worded his sentence... it nagged at the back of his mind.

Sherlock has never told anyone about himself or his problems simply because they never asked and even if they did he would never say anything anyway because it was none of their business. But Mycroft had that look. It was that face he made when he knew something Sherlock didn't mixed in with a tinge of guilt for knowing it and not saying anything.

"I'm worried about you, that's all," Mycroft assured with well practiced concern. Feelings weren't exactly a trait that ran in the Holmes blood line (or maybe it was just them), so any hint emotion was obligatory to sound ungenuine.

"You have no reason to be?" Sherlock inquired, squinting his eyes and turning his head slightly. It wasn't exactly a question but he wasn't entirely confident with his statement either. "Empathy isn't your strongest suit, Mycroft. If I were you, which I'm terribly pleased not to be, I'd suggest you refrain from pretending to care. Most people don't like to be patronized."

It was defensive and harsh and completely uncalled for but Sherlock isn't known for being compassionate or caring of other people's feelings, if Mycroft still had any that is. Mycroft's face fell short just but it was enough for Sherlock to see. _Perhaps Mycroft was concerned after all, but what of?_ Sherlock wasn't sure but...

"But you aren't most people, Sherlock," Mycroft tells him resolutely.

"Good day," Sherlock dismissed shortly before stomping off with a storm could above his head.

...it nagged at him for the rest of the day.

Shortly after his visit with Mycroft, on the cab ride home, Sherlock started to ponder on what Mycroft could be so worried about. Sherlock got into his fair share of trouble, sure, but it was expected of him to clash with the law from time to time, so that couldn't be it. The only thing Mycroft cared about was the grit of Sherlock's faults mucking up his good name.

Sherlock gazed out the window, watching the mundane musings of pedestrians as they passed by fleetingly. He sighed his discontent for the whole world to hear even if that only meant the cabbie, but he wasn't interested in Sherlock's problems. _Why would he? They weren't his to be concerned about._ But still, Sherlock's mind dwelled too much on Mycroft's remark.

_But you aren't most people, Sherlock_

What had Mycroft meant by that? Was he referring to the time he fired off a gun just because he was bored to tears? That was just an isolated incident and no one was hurt, or even around for that matter. Sherlock was aloof and did the unexpected all the time just because he could. If Sherlock didn't get into trouble everyone would think something was wrong with him. Then again, they probably wouldn't question it that much after all. It wasn't his smoking either because Sherlock had kicked that habit months ago and was doing relatively well. Besides, a lot of people smoked.

There was a momentary lapse in his thought process when the cab slowed down to a stop at a traffic light. Sherlock looked out the window and towards the neighborhood playground. Eight years have passed and it still looked the same as it did the first day he moved to this street. The crowd was the only thing that really seemed to change. Then again, that much was obvious.

In a sense, in the deep dark recesses of Sherlock's mind, he somehow watched all these kids grow up. Over the years he'd watch the kids get older until there finally came a day when they had no more use for slides and swing sets. Sometimes Sherlock envied them for having such a carefree existence and sometimes Sherlock couldn't stand the sight of them.

It made him sick to his stomach just to watch them run and giggle and fall down...

It only reminded him of just how screwed up people like him were and it pushed him further into his self-loathing. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and turned his head away from the children in disgrace. _No! I'm not sick... Not any more._ Sherlock had learned many years ago how to suppress his urges and function somewhat as a normal human being like everyone else. He was stronger than this. He could beat it by pure will if he really wanted to, and he can. Sherlock wasn't ill.

The light turned green and the cab took off down the street, leaving the root of Sherlock's illness in the shrinking distance.

He should really consider moving. After all, it's been nearly eight years. A change of scenery is what Sherlock needs now more than ever. Maybe that's what he'll do today to suppress the dull ache of boredom, he's got nothing better to do anyway. Surely there must be someone looking for a flatmate that's desperate enough to take him on as a tenant, right?

Rent was ghastly this side of London and it was nearly impossible to sustain a residence on a mediocre salary. If anything, Sherlock would be doing this potential flatmate a favor by helping with the bills, if they could handle his outrageous behavior, that is. Sherlock was never keen on holding his breath for acceptance by others anyhow because he didn't deserve it.

************************

Nearly two hours later and after dozens of doors being slammed in his face, Sherlock had lost all hope. Not that he had started with much anyway, but his patience was wearing thin as the day dragged on. Sherlock was running out of options fast because people had set there standards too high to accommodate someone like Sherlock. But perhaps he shouldn't have insulted them before he was even invited in.

Some time during the past half hour it had started to rain and Sherlock trudged down the street hurriedly, pulling his collar up against the rain as he watched the road for any cabs. Might as well go home for the day, he figured, since nothing was coming up anyway. Sherlock didn't actually think he was going to move out all in one day, did he? It didn't stop him from trying though.

Sherlock was ready to hail an oncoming cab when he spotted a bulletin board sheltered from the rain by a kiosk across the street. When there was a momentary gap in traffic, Sherlock looked both ways before dashing across like a maniac. Car horns resounded all over the street as he stomped his way through puddles and potholes, dodging cars like a mad man.

Once he got under to protection of the kiosk Sherlock scanned the bulletin board and willfully ignored the various shouts of obscenities from passing motorists. His eyes quickly picked up on all the information posted there, mentally discarding what was useless and filing away the things that had promise for the moment.

Most of it was rubbish. Flyers for some obscure bands playing at a local hot spot or people looking for pet sitters and the like. Some of it seemed important though, like awareness posters about serious diseases and health care. Relief washed over Sherlock like the water droplets running down his face when he saw an advert for a room to rent. He snagged it off the bulletin board and hopped in the first cab he could get.

Soon after Sherlock found himself standing in front of the address on the flyer he nicked from the bulletin board. 221b Baker street, just a few blocks down the road from the kiosk. It was a relatively quiet area where nothing too significant ever happened, which was a plus so far, and it was far away from any debilitating vices.

It was pouring by now, his curls much darker and messier than before, and his clothes were soggy from standing still for too long in the rain. Sherlock knocked urgently four times and waited for someone to answer, hoping that they were in. At this point Sherlock wasn't as dead set on getting a place as he could've been, he just wanted to be out of the rain for a moment, so if he's lucky the door won't be slammed in his face this time.

After another long beat Sherlock could hear footsteps descending down the stairs and the door being unlatched. He tugged on his coat and ran his hands through his hair, trying to make himself as presentable as possible but failing tragically as the wind and rain made it a point to ruin any success. Sherlock took a step back as the front door opened.

A young man answered the door by cracking it open by a margin, trying to keep the rain and wind from invading the complex. He poked his blonde head out of the threshold and Sherlock put on his best, if not a little weak, fake smile. Clearly he wasn't the landlord considering his youthful age but Sherlock felt there was no harm in some extra insurance. He was getting desperate.

"May I help you?" The young man asked, looking Sherlock up and down with a skeptical eye.

"Yes, I saw your flyer down the road a ways and was hoping you still had a room available?" Sherlock spoke swiftly, his voice unwavering even though every fiber in him wanted to break down and shiver.

"Oh yes, of course!" The blonde exclaimed merrily, opening the door wide enough to let Sherlock in. "Come in quick before you catch your death of cold!"

Sherlock was more than willing to oblige the young man's request as he was ushered in by enthusiastic hands. The door was shut promptly behind him, pushing in the last gust of cold air inside with them. The warmth engulfed Sherlock too fast and a shudder wracked his body in the most delightful way.

"It's just this way," the younger man informed with a pat to Sherlock's back, ascending the stairs to the second floor with Sherlock in tow. When they got to the top he asked, "May I take your coat?"

"By all means," Sherlock mumbled as he took a look around the place.

It was a little cluttered with various medical books and magazines but he figured it was habitable enough since his own place doesn't look any better. Sherlock shrugged his coat off when the blonde came up behind him and peeled the damp material off his shoulders, hanging it to dry momentarily on the coat rack.

"Sorry, I really should've cleaned up a bit," the young man excused when he saw his potential flatmate eye the clutter precariously. "To be honest, you're the first person to respond in two weeks."

"Clearly," Sherlock sighed heavily, not really meaning to sound condescending.

He tugged off his scarf and held it out to one side as if waiting for the young man to hang that as well and he did. Sherlock turned around and came face to face with the young man, catching him off guard for a second. It was his first time getting a good look at him since he arrived.

Something was awfully familiar about this particular young man, like déjà vu had hit him full force and knocked him to the ground. Big ears, long nose, subtle mousy features that seem to make him look like a ferret or even a hedgehog. Strange how some people can resemble animals... But Sherlock has always been good at remembering faces, so where has he seen this man before?

His attention is quickly diverted when he notices the blonde man's chewed up fingernails and it's all the fuel he needed to know everything.

"Oxford or Cambridge?" Sherlock inquired with a smirk. The young man stared up at him curiously.

"I'm sorry?" The blonde asks after a beat.

"University," Sherlock clarifies quickly. "It's quite obvious you plan on going to some sort of uni in the near future."

"Obvious?" The young man asks skeptically. "How could you possibly know that?"

"You have ink smudges just below your wrist, possibly filling out resumes. You're left-handed. Dark circles under your eyes so you haven't slept in twenty-six hours. Medical books everywhere. Better make that thirty-two hours. There are pressure marks from reading glasses just across the bridge of your nose. You want to go to uni but with your salary that might be a problem. So you study, medicine obviously. Your hair is neatly kept so you've had it recently cut. Neatly ironed jumper, jeans, Keds. Nothing too fancy. You've kept up your appearance mostly for job interviews since you earn minimum wage, hence the advert. So, Oxford or Cambridge?"

"I haven't really decided yet-- Do even breathe when you talk?" The shorter man asks perplexed after a long pause, mouth agape from the display of intellectual prowess.

"Breathing is boring."

"Right... You just figured all this out just by looking at me? Am I supposed to believe that?" The blonde inquires somewhat sarcastically.

"Science of deduction. I observe more thoroughly than the average person and I make my own deductions from the facts presented to me," Sherlock enlightens.

"So you make educated guesses?" The short man contradicts, studying the lines of Sherlock's face.

"It's not a guess if I'm right."

"And you're always right, are you?"

"Well, am I wrong about you?" Sherlock retorts, raising his eyebrows.

"Who are you?" The young man asks, frozen in awe and bewilderment as he completely ignores his question.

He's never met anyone like this man before in his life time but even as he thinks this, he knows he's wrong because he has.There's a faint flicker of familiarity in the those bright irises and for a moment the shorter of the two swears he's seen this man before, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

The blonde man's mouth snaps shut and his breath is taken away from him altogether. It couldn't be. Hearing that name rings bells inside of his head and he suddenly remembers.

"You have a silly name," John says to Sherlock slowly, recalling each word as if it were yesterday.

Sherlock's face goes blank as he says these words and in this moment it all came crashing back with a vengeance and Sherlock no longer felt sure about himself or his progress with his illness. If anything, seeing this kid all grown up after all these years had sent him back to square one.

"Well, you have a silly nose..." Sherlock remarks just as slowly, tapping the tip of John's long nose like he had eight years ago.

The little tap to the tip of his nose was an intimate reminder of how much he missed his mom after all these years. He knows why Sherlock was able to deduce so much about him now. John is taken aback by this sudden revelation and even he doesn't want to believe it. What were odds of John coming across a man he only met once and whom he barely remembers?

"How about I show you around the place?" John asks suddenly, feeling quite flustered with the memory.

Sherlock simply nods at this, but all he can see is eleven year old John Watson falling and scraping his knee.


	4. Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while since I've updated but to be honest this story is sorta a bitch to write. I had a hard time writing this chapter because I didn't know where to go from here, but I just want everyone to know that I'm trying! I do plan on finishing this someday but it can be difficult at times, especially when I want to write other stories.
> 
>  
> 
> **But thank you to all the people who continue to read and comment and wait patiently for updates. You guys are the reason why I'm making an effort!**
> 
>  
> 
> It's not much, but I hope you enjoy this update :)

It had been a week since their discussion about the room for rent and after a lengthy chat with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock was now moving in. He met Mrs. Hudson only briefly earlier in the day when he started bringing his things over, but she seemed nice enough, if not a little wary of Sherlock's presence.

It was brought to Sherlock's attention that Mrs. Hudson was like a mother to John after his passed away and, as such, she was rather protective. It made Sherlock second guess whether or not he should've rented the room after all. Mrs. Hudson didn't know who he is and she was still cautious of him. Perhaps Sherlock was just paranoid.

Then again, maybe it was a bad idea for Sherlock to be living with John, but he was a young man now. He wasn't that little boy Sherlock had met so many years ago. Strictly speaking, John wasn't even his type anymore and Sherlock wasn't a threat to his safety. That's not to say Sherlock was dangerous, however. Sherlock was perfectly in control of his urges constantly, but the fact still remained.

Still, Sherlock is a little nervous about this arrangement simply because, even though he's all grown up now, all he can see is John as a kid. He's tried on many occasions to will himself into liking people around his own age, but there was a brick wall Sherlock could not get past. Sherlock isn't sure why this is but it fills him with a burden that he wishes he never had.

Sherlock tries to occupy himself with unpacking his things instead of lingering on such thoughts. He figured he could start unpacking his books and alphabetize them, seeing as how he eventually had to do it anyway. This plan was shortly lived, though, when John came round to pop his head in.

Sherlock is aware that he's there but continues to unpack and pretend like he can't see John standing in the threshold of his room. If John came to talk he will initiate a conversation. John leans against the frame, watching Sherlock with a curious gaze as he rifles through boxes of books and various lab equipment.

"Are you settling in alright?" John asks, for lack of a better conversation starter.

"I'm getting there," Sherlock says, keeping his head down as he starts to divide and stack his books on the floor.

"You know, this used to be my room when I was younger," John hums with fondness, looking around the room slowly being cluttered with Sherlock's things. "Looked similar to this except I had my bed against the wall just under the window. I used to like staring up at the stars."

 _Oh, great,_ Sherlock thinks sarcastically, getting a tad flustered. _Just the information I needed to know._

Sherlock doesn't make a comment towards this, however, giving John the impression to walk in further so he can reminisce. John idly walks around the room until coming to stop at the window, sparing a brief look outside before joining Sherlock on his bed. He sits down with a soft sigh, taking in the new presence of his old room. John sits close to Sherlock at the edge of his bed but this is coincidental.

"Those were the days," John comments thoughtfully.

"What happened?" Sherlock finds himself asking before he can stop. Sherlock glances over at John expectantly.

"Just a lot of memories," John sighs indifferently, bracing his hands on his thighs. "Some good, some bad... Others I'd just as soon forget. I must sound so whiny right now."

"Everyone's entitled to a few regrets here and there," Sherlock offers, finding no other way to comfort the young man.

"What do you regret, Mr. Holmes?" John asks curiously, but otherwise cheeky.

"Plenty of things," Sherlock dismisses, dodging the question effortlessly. "It's not always just one thing, is it?"

"I suppose," John considers, offering a simple shrug and nod.

They sit there for a few tense moments in relative silence with the exception of the chatter and car motors coming from outside. It's the first time they've had a proper conversation since last week and John feels a little awkward to say the least. He's never had a roommate before and John virtually knows _nothing_ about the man so far, aside from a very faint memory of him when he was younger.

"We haven't introduced ourselves yet," John points out, hoping to make the tense atmosphere between them dissipate.

"Sure we have," Sherlock replies, opening another box. "We did eight years ago."

"That's not a proper introduction. Besides, I hardly even remember that," John complains mildly, feeling at a loss.

"I really don't see the point," Sherlock says, trying to refrain from letting John get under his skin.

"It's just a way for us to get to know each other," John states, facing Sherlock now with a hopeful expression.

"You don't want to know me," Sherlock brushes off blatantly.

"Of course I do. For better or worse we're roommates now and I'd really like for this to work," John admits with a faint blush.

Sherlock uses his cold callousness to repel others away from him so they wouldn't have to find out how much of a monster he is. It usually worked most of the time as well, except John seemed set on figuring him out for some strange reason. Sherlock slouches his shoulders and gazes over at John, setting his books down haphazardly. He finds John's determination oddly endearing and perhaps a little desirable.

"That's not what people usually say when they meet me," Sherlock mentions, letting John in just a little bit.

"What do they usually say?" John inquires.

"Piss off," Sherlock chuckles belatedly, making John smile bright and damn does it make Sherlock feel giddy. He sticks his hand out towards John. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service."

"John Watson," he responds, reciprocating Sherlock's invitation for a handshake.

The handshake is a little lingering in the sense that neither Sherlock or John want to let go. Sherlock is frozen with the fact that he hasn't touched John since he was a child and now that he was grown up it felt oddly familiar despite that their interaction being eight years ago. John holds on because he's taken aback by the dismissive and secretive man.

Their hands pull away fleetingly and both men are left with a sensation that hadn't been there before. Sherlock stares at John, getting a real good look at him for the first time since last week. He's still short but not like how he was when they had first met. Obviously he's grown a little bit since then, but there was a certain boyish charm about John that hasn't eluded him since childhood.

John grew into his ears well enough but that long nose had remained the one defining feature still reminiscent of his youth and it drove Sherlock mad. Looking at John now, Sherlock wishes he could say that he was a handsome young man, but all he sees is little John Watson. Sherlock hates himself for it but there's nothing he can do, really.

Every time he tries to see John how he is right now, his mind automatically puts it through a filter for a more pleasing sight. Namely, a version of John that is preferably younger and more delicate in the way that most children are. Sherlock feels nauseous like he could blow any second now, but John reels him back in.

"It's weird having someone else here, you know?" John ponders out loud, taking in the sight of all the books and boxes generated by Sherlock. "I've been alone for so long that I'm not used to being around other people. Or share a flat for that matter."

"I know what you mean," Sherlock concurs, staring straight ahead at the empty armoire. "I mean, I grew up with a brother, but I might as well just be alone."

"You two don't get on well or something?" John asks, giving Sherlock a quizzical look.

"Something like that..." Sherlock offers. He admires John's curiosity but doesn't feel like talking about his life right now. "He's a tyrant and I'm a brat."

"You don't seem all that bad," John lets out with a soft giggle.

"I could be a whole lot better, though," Sherlock deflects pessimistically, undeserving of John's compassion.

"It's no use beating yourself up over it. No one's perfect, after all," John states, looking over at Sherlock who reluctantly looks back. "We could all do with some change once in a while."

 _If only you knew_ , Sherlock wants to laugh but keeps the remark to himself.

Sherlock supposes the young man is right but it does little to comfort him when John is sitting so close. They stare at each other for what feels like the longest time and John gives Sherlock this indiscernible look. It's as if John wants to say or do something but is keeping himself from falling through on it and it prompts Sherlock to shy away belatedly. He knows what that expression means.

"Well, I got to go and study," John excuses with a wistful sigh, patting Sherlock on the knee.

Sherlock squirms slightly at the intimate touch, despising the way it makes his heart flutter and his stomach churn. John gets up from his spot on Sherlock's bed and makes his way towards the door. The blonde only stops to turn around and hang in the doorway languidly, noticing that Sherlock still had his eyes on him, anticipating him intently.

"Feel free to make yourself at home," John adds as a friendly reminder. "We'll chat later, yeah?"

Once John disappears into another part of the flat, Sherlock was able to gain some remaining control over his emotions and subdue the impure thoughts that dared to cloud over his better judgment. Sherlock hasn't felt these urges in so long that it genuinely frightens him to think that the only thing stopping him from relapsing into old thinking habits was himself.

Sherlock was aware that he couldn't cure this type of sexual perversion but he liked to believe that he had a certain degree of control over the matter. He could control the physical aspect and resist the urge to act upon said urges but the psychological aspect was questionable at best. There really was nothing stopping him from living out his fantasies within the safety of his mind palace because even Sherlock Holmes couldn't suppress his feelings all the time.

But he could bloody well try.

Sherlock goes back to what he had been doing before John came in and made it a point to get some actual organizing done. He didn't have that much stuff to go through aside from books, equipment, and clothes. Sherlock still had some furniture he had to move in from his old place but wondered if that was a good idea or not.

By all rights Sherlock should be packing his stuff back up and running for the hills just so he doesn't have to be around John. This half-cocked plan for a fresh start was crashing and burning fast and all because Sherlock couldn't function like any other decent human being. There was no denying the fact that he liked John, but it was for all the wrong reasons.

Sherlock had seen the look in John's eye before he left, recognizing the longing gaze as mutual attraction. It wasn't hard to figure out that John seemed interested in Sherlock, no matter how subtle he was. He was overtly friendly and he briefly touched Sherlock in an affectionate way, suggesting that John was actively seeking a connection.

While Sherlock was more than flattered by the notion, he ultimately couldn't go through with it if John ever came onto him sexually. John was of age, being nineteen and all, and it would be more than legal in the physical sense. Mentally, however, was a blurred line and Sherlock could only see it ending in abomination.

It has, regrettably, happened in the past though. Sherlock's had partners before, around his age, but it never seemed to work out in the long run. He's gone all the way sexually with adults on many occasions but the only reason he was able to do so was because he had been thinking about other things during the act. Things that he regrets and things he wishes he never would've imagined.

Everybody makes mistakes all the time, but Sherlock knows he doesn't apply to this particular list of people because he's more than aware of what he thinks about during sex with people his own age. It doesn't matter how much he despises himself for it either. Surely, if there is a Hell, Sherlock knows there's a special place reserved just for him.

And if there isn't, there should be.


	5. To Deny Is To Invite Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm crummy with updates and this chapter is shitty, but I'm trying... **_blah, blah, blah, excuse, excuse, excuse_**... What else can I say?
> 
> Plus, various lines taken from A Study In Pink.

Sherlock Holmes was a peculiar man, to say the least.

Not long after he had moved in this was made apparent to John simply by how the taller man acted around him, or lack thereof. Sherlock always seemed to be dashing about, going here and there as if he were perpetually stuck in motion. He was a busy man who was always doing something and it made John curious more than anything. Not only that, but John noticed that Sherlock hardly ever ate and when he did eat it was close to nothing.

It was behavior that concerned John, but the young man could never get Sherlock to slow down long enough to bring it up in conversation. It's almost like Sherlock was willfully trying to avoid him for some reason or another and maybe that thought made John a little despondent. John realizes he didn't put out an ad for a friend, only someone who could help pay the bills, but he thought things would be different.

Not everything about Sherlock was disheartening, though. John soon figured out that Sherlock was a brilliant man with an even more outlandish job, which he didn't get paid for by the way, but John didn't complain since the bills were getting paid. He didn't know where the money came from and John figured he didn't particularly care, for that matter.

When Sherlock was around he seemed aloof in demeanor and impulsive with his actions, but John found that to be quite interesting about the man. When he did talk to John he had a lot to say especially if he was currently working on a case. John thought it endearing whenever Sherlock came to him for a second opinion. John felt oddly honored whenever Sherlock asked for help, though he felt there was a hidden subtext to Sherlock's motives for doing this.

At first, John assumed it was guilt for blatantly ignoring him the first few weeks or even perhaps making at attempt to stimulate friendship, but John noticed it was more than that. It just had to be. There were moments when John would be studying in the kitchen and Sherlock would come dancing over to his side, pressing purposely close to him, requesting he take a second look at something or other.

It isn't just the accidental brush here and there or the invasion of space that made John come to this conclusion, however. There was also the subtle quirks of responding to habitual needs, such as purposely keeping John's known studying areas clear for whenever he used them. That coupled with a few stolen glances and John was convinced Sherlock was interested in him in some way.

It's as if Sherlock was making it his mission to figure out John's mannerisms and adapt to them.

John is probably jumping the gun by assuming Sherlock is subtly flirting with him. After all, it could just be his own feelings projecting onto the other man. John wasn't going to lie himself, there was a certain aura Sherlock gave off that the blonde can't seem to resist, but John swears this feeling is mutual. He just fears looking like an ass if he's got Sherlock's intentions all wrong.

But instead of letting it eat up inside him, John opts to call Sherlock out on it. Subtly, of course. He just doesn't know how he's going to factor a question about Sherlock's sexuality into a conversation, let alone figure out if Sherlock has a crush on him or not. All John needs is the right moment, when Sherlock isn't working, and then he could press the subject and perhaps learn a little bit more about his mysterious tenant.

During the midst of Sherlock's third week living at 221B, there was a sharp decline in cases for Sherlock to occupy himself with and, as such, he found himself stuck at the flat sifting through potential clients. Most were standard and of little importance to Sherlock, cheating spouses and the like, so when John starts to approach him in the living room he relents and lets the young man sit down on the couch next to him.

Sherlock has his hands pressed together with the tips of his fingers resting against his lips as if he's deep in thought.

"Bad day?" John asks, trying for conversation.

"More or less," Sherlock replies with a heavy sigh. He spares a glance over at John, regarding him precariously for a moment. "You're not studying? You usually study around this time."

"You know the certain times I study at?" John inquires with a hint of amusement in his tone, smiling briefly.

"I didn't know," Sherlock scoffs indignantly, becoming a little flustered at this as his cheeks flood with red. "I noticed. There is a difference."

"I was only teasing," John chuckles lightly.

"So, if you're not studying then what _are_ you doing?" Sherlock asks.

"I'm flirting with you," John tells him honestly, resting a hand against Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock sits there a moment, indulging himself in the innocent touch until he becomes even more flustered and maneuvers himself awkwardly out of it. John quirks an eyebrow and grins widely at this reaction but doesn't make an attempt to embarrass the man further. He can tell by Sherlock's blush alone that he's embarrassed by the invasion of personal space.

Sherlock's glad when John doesn't pry further and adjusts himself a scoot away from John by instinct. John doesn't notice this though since he's too wrapped up in grinning, that same grin he had so many years ago. _Christ..._ Sherlock averts his gaze at towards the fireplace across the room, spying a framed picture.

He hops up onto his feet and makes his way to the mantle, plucking up the frame with his hand. It's a snapshot, no more than six years old he supposes, depicting a tall lanky boy with dark curls and an awkward smile with his arm wrapped around the waist of a much shorter boy with a mop of blonde hair. Sherlock looks it over with a longing admiration as he realizes who one of the boys is.

It's John, circa six years ago when he was thirteen, dressed in the standard school kit for physical education. Sherlock's pulse picks up just a fraction as his eyes rake over big ears, silken hair, dirt and grass stains, and knobby knees poking out from his shorts. John is smiling ear to ear, reciprocating the friendly waist hug by leaning into the other boy further and snaking his own arm around the much thinner waist.

Sherlock is vaguely envious of the boy next to John and invading his space, leading Sherlock to imagine himself in his place, holding John's little frame closely next to his instead before his brain automatically shoots down that scenario. Sherlock has to bite his lip to stifle the shame washing through his being at the thrill it fills him with to see John at such a young age. And, boy, does it make him feel nauseous.

"That's a picture of me and my friend Andy taken back in secondary school," John points out with a soft tone of nostalgia.

The sudden presence of John makes Sherlock flinch subtly at his close proximity. He had been so caught up in studying John's mousy features that he hadn't heard the young man approach him from behind. He wants to set the picture down, trying to will himself to do it even, but Sherlock's gaze lingers as he brushes a thumb over the thirteen year old John's face.

"My mum died just a few months before that picture was taken," John goes on to say, frown evident in his voice.

"I can't imagine what that must be like, losing someone you love," Sherlock acknowledges, eyes still glued to John's beaming expression and remembering John telling him about his mother that day they met. "At least you had someone to help you bear through it."

"Andy was my only friend or, you know, the only one that cared about my well-being," John says. He glances at Sherlock, biting his lip before he adds, "He's actually more than a friend on occasion."

"Oh..."

He looks up at Sherlock's face to see that it's vacant but otherwise receptive to his innuendo, telling John that Sherlock caught his meaning. John steps around Sherlock marginally, plucking the picture frame from his hand to set it back on the mantle. Sherlock is at a momentary loss, saddened by the departure of John in his prime, but looks to the blonde man when he comes out of his stupor.

"What about you?" John inquires, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the frame of the fireplace. "I bet a handsome man like you has a girlfriend."

"Girlfriend? No. Not really my area," Sherlock brushes off, looking John up and down with a neutral expression.

"Oh, right then... Do you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock's irises fix on John's face in an unnerved glare, shocked that John has come to that assumption."Which is fine--"

"I know it's fine," Sherlock cuts off with a defensive lilt in his voice.

But it's not fine. It's far from it actually, but John doesn't have a clue as to _why_ it's not okay. Either way, he can't just tell John about his illness because he knows it can only end badly. John would misunderstand and be disgusted with him no matter which way he explains it and Sherlock can't let that happen. It's better if John just stays in the dark.

"So, you don't have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. That's perfectly normal," John gushes, feeling a little guilty for even prying. Still, he feels compelled to ask one more question. "Do you have any friends at all?"

"People get in the way," Sherlock offers, staring down at John and only seeing a shade of the boy he once was.

"Then what am I?" John presses.

"You're just a person I rent a room from," Sherlock tells him in a hollow tone, hiding his true feelings with a mask of forlorn stoicism.

It pains Sherlock to see the way John's shoulders slump and his face drop fractionally at these blunt words, but Sherlock tells himself it's for a good cause. The farther he distances any taboo feelings for John, the better his condition will be. He loves John, he realizes, ever since he was eleven, but therein lies the problem. John is of age and any advances would be more than consensual, but the way Sherlock pictures John is immoral.

After all, he's been indulging in his fixation towards John a little proactively lately. Like going to John for minor help on cases even though he didn't need it, just so he could lean into John's space, or how he would watch him study with that long nose stuck perpetually in a book. He knows this isn't healthy, and living with John isn't helping, but it's too late. He has no where else to go now and he truly loves it here, minus the impure feelings he has towards John, that is.

So, it's better to deny John altogether than to fuel the fire raging inside him even though he can't resist the temptation entirely yet. And when he notices John openly frowning, Sherlock knows he won't be able to resist for much longer.

"Oh... I see..." John mumbles out, looking like a lost puppy as he excuses himself. "I, uh, I should probably go and study or... You know..."

"John," Sherlock finds himself calling out when the young man turns to leave. John looks back at him with hopeful gaze and Sherlock can feel his resolve crumbling. "That doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend."

_What the bloody hell am I doing?_

"I'm just..." Sherlock pauses and John looks at him expectantly, "...having a bad day."

"I understand," John acknowledges, blushing softly at his own behavior as well. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention. I just sort of figured you were--"

"What?"

"Nothing," John brushes off with a small smile. "It doesn't matter."

They stare at each other for the longest moment, trying to read one another's minds, but coming up blank. Sherlock knows this is a bad idea before it even happens. It's not as if Sherlock can magically cure himself or even make himself attracted to adults in the way he's attracted to children, no matter how much he wants to be normal.

But maybe it isn't as bad of an idea as Sherlock makes it out to be? His only problem is seeing John a certain way, so maybe spending time with the young man he is _now_ will wash away the memories of the young boy he _used_ to be. After all, it was worth a shot, even if Sherlock was just deluding himself into believing that.

Either way, he can't stop himself from opening his big dumb mouth.

"How about lunch?" Sherlock offers, making himself smile to seem friendly. "I haven't eaten in two days."

"I know," John remarks with worry, but otherwise good-natured humor. It even makes Sherlock smirk briefly.

"Chinese?"

"Absolutely," John beams.

Sherlock isn't sure if this is a good idea, but it's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any ideas on how I should continue this, please let me know, because I'm having trouble. Thanks!


	6. A Crying Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're all thinking: Finally, an update!
> 
> Well, I just want to warn you that this chapter contains mentions of murder, suicide, and impure thoughts about minors. So please heed the warnings.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry if the ending seemed a little rushed. I was desperate to finish this.

He doesn't know how it's happened but John is currently putting his studying aside in order to help Sherlock on a case. After Sherlock let himself have lunch with John a few times, it became a regular thing and he found himself gushing little tidbits of information about his occupational choice. It's not like Sherlock hated sharing things, it's just that he wanted to avoid peaking John's interest, but it seemed like that was inevitable.

Once John figured out that Sherlock solved cases for a living like a detective out of a crime novel, he immediately wanted in on the action. It could be that John was a little sheltered as a child or the fact that he had nothing better to do, but his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Sherlock warned him that it could be dangerous but it did close to nothing to dissuade John's already made up mind.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sherlock inquires with an air of incredulity, eyebrows raised expectantly into his hairline. "I work with violent deaths and corpses all day long. Most can't stomach it and I wouldn't think any less of you if you wanted to quit while you're ahead."

Sherlock thinks of John's mom and wonders if he saw her dead body or if he was refused that privilege because he was _too young_. And while Sherlock thinks he's got John, the young man simply scoffs with the petulance of a child and shakes his head. Obviously unconvinced.

"Honestly, Sherlock. I'm sure I'll be fine," John assures with a heavy sigh, but a bemused look about his face. "It can't be any worse than what you keep in the fridge. I'll just grab my coat and we can head out," John informs as if he's the one giving orders.

Sherlock blushes at the comment, feeling guilty for tainting the perfectly decent refrigerator with his experiments and dismembered cadavers. John pats Sherlock on the shoulder just then as he walks by him, making Sherlock shiver at the contact. There weren't too many instances in which they held any capacity of contact and when they did it made Sherlock's insides twist into knots.

It didn't matter what it was or the subtext of the conversation, it _always_ managed to make Sherlock cringe a little each time. It was John who mostly initiated the brief moments of contact between them, but every once in a while Sherlock would forget and slip in his self control. Sometimes it was innocent enough like leaning over John's shoulder to point something out to him or borrowing one of his medical textbooks.

Often times it was indulgent caresses Sherlock let himself get away with whenever John pressed in too close. He would realize what he was doing just in time to pull away before John could approve of the lingering touches. Which never seemed to help since John took pleasure in flirting with him, an act he swore was just all in good fun. Sherlock might be blissfully ignorant towards some things, like the solar system, but he knew for a fact what John's intentions were.

The cab ride over to the crime scene is quiet for the most part because John is a tad nervous and Sherlock is clueless when it comes to calming people down and appealing to their emotions. The only reason he was able to calm John as a child is because he _was_ a child. Sherlock didn't know how to talk to adults, let alone relate to their _feelings_. So instead of trying to get John's mind off of the case, he reminds him of it.

"People die all the time, John. Murder, suicide, natural causes... It's up to the people like us to figure out how and/or why they died," Sherlock tells him, sparing a glance over at the young man. "This is important."

"You're right. You're absolutely right," John gushes nervously, resolve he held so perfectly earlier dissolving fast. "I want to be a doctor for Pete's sake. I should get used to the idea of dead bodies."

John laughs off the uneasy wave rippling through him and he's glad Sherlock is mature enough to not ridicule him or scold him after he said working a case with him was _no big deal_ and that he could _handle it_. Luckily, John pulls himself together by the time they arrive at their destination.

They roll up in the heart of the crime scene with Sherlock leading the way as he tows a nervous John in behind him in his wake. They get a few sideways glances from some of the people on the forensics team as well as a scowl from one of the men, but Sherlock mostly tunes it out. What he _can't_ ignore is how a few of them seem to stare at John with such contempt, as if his youth is something to be spiteful about.

He doesn't appreciate the way they make John visibly uncomfortable to the point where John feels inclined to hang his head down in shame. Maybe if they had more say in the matter, and Sherlock is thankful they don't, then perhaps he'd be more threatened by them. But as far as Sherlock was concerned, Lestrade was the only person that had authority over him.

Not that he'd ever let that stop him.

Sherlock spots Lestrade closer towards the crime scene and makes a B-line straight to him, ignoring the passive aggressive comments that follow in his wake. Lestrade is murmuring something to one of his officers when Sherlock reaches him, but he doesn't quite catch it. Judging by the way the officer openly glares at him before she leaves lets Sherlock know it was about him.

It seems the police force always has a knack for gossiping about Sherlock. It didn't always make him feel self-conscious, but when it did he always felt paranoid. Almost as if they _knew_ about his _sickness_. As far as Sherlock knows no one is none the wiser about his perversion, but every so often, when he catches Lestrade's eye, he's almost convinced that the DI _knows_.

Something in the way he slightly shifts his posture away from Sherlock or how he avoids eye contact whenever he mentions his children. It makes his stomach twist to think that Lestrade doesn't trust him enough to feel comfortable when talking about certain topics. Sherlock is just thankful that Lestrade never flat out asks him about it, otherwise he'd be screwed.

Even if Sherlock were to admit his illness to Lestrade right now, he likes to think that Lestrade wouldn't think any less of him and only see him as the brilliant detective he is. But that, along with seeing John as he is now and becoming cured, is too far from his grasp that Sherlock's not holding his breath.

"What seems to be the situation?" Sherlock asks, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets as he peeks over Lestrade's shoulder.

"Anthony Jenkins, aged 34. Just released from prison as of two weeks ago. It looks like a simple open and shut suicide," Lestrade sighs.

"But?" Sherlock elludes, sensing something deeper at play here.

"There's something that doesn't sit well with me," Lestrade admits, stepping closer to Sherlock to lower his voice. "The victim, if you can call him that, was a convicted child molester."

Sherlock can feel his skin crawl at the mention of those words and wonders who could be so vile as to assault children. Then he realizes that _he_ is the type of person to do that. The only thing that separates him from Jenkins is self-control.

"A man like that must have enemies," Sherlock comments, trying to ignore the fact Lestrade felt the need to tell him this secretly.

"Which is why I want you to keep an eye out for anything remotely suspicious," Lestrade goes onto say.

"Luckily for you I have my best eyes to see to it," Sherlock replies, stepping aside to reveal John who was standing patiently behind him.

"Who is this?" Lestrade nearly exclaims, skeptical that a young was with Sherlock.

"Dr. John Watson," Sherlock introduces, pausing briefly before continuing. "Don't mind do you?"

Before John can even properly introduce himself and before Lestrade can stumble out a reply, Sherlock is pulling John into the room with the corpse of Anthony Jenkins. John reels back slightly as Sherlock slams the door for more privacy and stares at the aloof consulting detective skeptically.

"You just lied to a policeman. That is a serious offense," John scolds in a harsh whisper.

"It got you in, didn't it?" Sherlock says instead, uncaring of John's responsible nature.

"Yes, but I'm not actually a doctor yet. I could get into trouble as well for impersonating one," John complains overdramatically.

"Consider this practice then," Sherlock offers.

"This was a bad idea."

When he sees John's shoulders slump and his lips turn down, Sherlock feels the need to reach out and reassure him otherwise.

"Look, we've only got ten minutes before Lestrade and his lap dogs come to boot us out, and there's no one else's judgment I trust more than yours," Sherlock tells him ardently, gripping his shoulders in a tender embrace. "Tell me what you see. Please?"

"Alright... Twisting my arm..." John sighs heavily, but Sherlock knows John is conceding greatly to get over himself.

John walks around and crouches down next to Anthony Jenkins' body to get a closer look. He's lying on his back with his head rolled to one side and deep three inch cuts on either of his wrists that have long since closed up from dry blood. John grimaces a little at the sight but Sherlock hardly notices this, however.

Even now as Sherlock is inspecting a fresh crime scene, his attention is drawn elsewhere when John takes a look around for himself. Sherlock pulls out his magnifying glass and starts to comb through the blood stains on the carpet. Sherlock tells himself that he's being thorough by studying fibers in the carpet with his magnifying glass, but really he's watching John bending over to study the discolored skin of the victim.

Sherlock is inconspicuously getting an eyeful John from under his curls as the blonde casually lays his hands all over the body. If Sherlock were anyone else, namely Lestrade, he would be reprimanding the young man and scolding him for disturbing the body, but Sherlock had no regard for human life, living or dead, and instead found his curiosity aroused by John's quiet deduction.

He never thought someone touching a corpse could be so enthralling but the way John grabs a pale wrist to inspect how deep the cut is, it has Sherlock's composure devolving fast. It's not enough to get a physical reaction out of him but Sherlock can, begrudgingly, admit that it excites him in an odd sort of way.

John lets go of the dead man's hand and leans down further to peel open an eye. Sherlock notices John's face go through a series of quirks until finally coming to rest on a furrow of confusion. The blonde pulls back and hums out a thoughtful _hmm_ , signaling Sherlock to inquire about his discoveries.

"Find anything useful?" Sherlock asks just then, knocking John momentarily out of his reverie.

Sherlock already knows what caused this man's death. He figured it out the moment he walked into the room. That's one of the reasons why he had been watching John quietly mull through it all. Sherlock wanted to see if John could solve the cause of death from all the medical texts he retained and also to indulge himself in the thrill he gets whenever someone conveys great feats of intelligence.

"This man was severely strangled. The police suspect this man committed suicide but..." John says, trailing off without looking away from the body.

"But?" Sherlock urges on, wanting to hear John go through all the possibilities before finding the correct one.

"That wasn't the cause," John finishes, looking up at Sherlock as the tall man walks around him. "Despite the lack of defensive wounds and no signs of a struggle, this murder wasn't precisely perfect."

"And what gives it away?" Sherlock inquires, egging John further on.

"Plenty of things," John gushes with a snort as if it's the most obvious thing. And it is, to people like him and Sherlock. "First off, these cuts were made post mortem. The blood flow is far too weak and the way it clots around the cut is vastly different. There isn't any oxygen to get to the blood so it becomes discolored. Plus, most people who commit suicide this way usually don't have enough strength to do both wrists."

"Outstanding," Sherlock praises, feeling himself getting dangerously intrigued by the young man. "What else?"

John looks up at Sherlock, locking his own pale gaze with the older man's twinkling bright one. John finds it odd that Sherlock could be so passionate about such things, but he can't deny that he loves how the man's face lights up. He looks over Jenkins' dead body again and thinks for a moment or two longer.

"Well, there's these pressure marks all around his neck," John points out, referring to the faint red marks pressed into deathly pale skin. "Almost like something was wrapped around it. Too thin for it to be rope. A tie maybe?"

"Marvelous, and..?" Sherlock congratulates, hopping up and down on the inside for John to top it all off.

"And... that's it," John closes with a shrug, making Sherlock's odd excitement fizzle severely. "How did I do?"

"I suppose you did as well as you could have," Sherlock sighs. "Except you missed the one key piece of data staring you right in the face."

"Which is..?" John trails off, prompting Sherlock to finish rubbing it in his face.

"The murderer," Sherlock confirms, smiling broadly. "It's a woman."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Press on nail," Sherlock explains, pointing towards the pink sliver of plastic lying just under the alcove of Jenkins' chin. "It all makes sense now."

"It doesn't to me..." John admits with a blush, feeling inadequate despite his outstanding medical deduction.

"Think about it, John. A convicted child molester gets released from prison and gets murdered shortly after? Who do you think would have it out for someone like him?" Sherlock proposes rhetorically, seeing the way John frowns when Sherlock mentions the dead man's unsavory past.

"So, what? Is this one of the victim's mother's revenge, then?" John asks dubiously, quirking an eyebrow. "If you ask me, justice was served."

The comment makes Sherlock's stomach drop and he can feel his cheeks heating up from the shame burning away inside of him. Sherlock hates it, but he can't help but feel a little defensive by the remark and acts on behalf of Anthony Jenkins.

"Do you truly believe that?" Sherlock questions, gauging John's reaction. "A man like you must believe in fair trial?"

"The man _did_ go on trial. And look how well that ended," John points out with a firmer and more serious tone. He stands up to tower over the corpse of Anthony Jenkins and shakes his head ruefully. "How is a _person_ like him getting released from prison fair to the victim?"

"It's not our place to decide who lives and dies, John. Life isn't fair."

John regards the corpse with one last look of contempt before he leaves the room without so much as another word. Sherlock is left to make his own interpretation on John's views as he musters up the will to report his findings to Lestrade. He meets Lestrade just outside the door, finding that John is waiting on the sidewalk with his coat zipped up to keep him warm.

"Have you got anything?" Lestrade asks, tearing Sherlock's eyes away from John.

"Anthony Jenkins was strangled to death but it was made to.look like a suicide," Sherlock says belatedly, turning up his coat collar against the wind. "I suggest you to start with the mothers of his victims as possible suspects."

He grimaces then, realizing just how hard it's going to be to arrest a woman who just wanted a little justice and who, apparently, doing everyone a public service. According to John.

"I'll get right on it," Lestrade responds slowly, looking Sherlock up and down cautiously. "What's going on with you, Sherlock?"

"There's nothing going on that I can't handle myself," Sherlock replies, on the defensive since Lestrade uses a certain concerned tone that he doesn't appreciate.

"Then why is that boy with you? Who I know is not a doctor by the way," Lestrade adds, feeling the need to let Sherlock know that he isn't as dumb as Sherlock makes him out to be.

"He's just my friend," Sherlock assures, talking mostly to himself and trying not to let it be that obvious. "He's studying to go to uni in a few months and I occasionally let him help me with cases for experience."

"I trust that he's in good hands, then. He's lucky to have a brilliant man mentoring him," Lestrade compliments, and it makes Sherlock's heart swell with great regret.

Lestrade whistles to round up his team and they retreat back into the small flat to carry on with their jobs. Sherlock descends the stoop stairs and comes to sidle up next to John who currently had his back facing him. John pretends as if Sherlock doesn't exist until he absolutely can't keep up the charade anymore.

"What do you think is going to happen to the woman?" John inquires before Sherlock can say anything.

"Justice," is all Sherlock can manage to say, prompting John to bark out a harsh laugh. "John, she had no right to play judge, jury, and executioner. You must understand that, right?"

"Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children," John recites carefully, looking straight ahead across the street as it started to sprinkle lightly. "She was doing what she had to, to protect her child. That's what I understand."

After a few minutes of tense silence pass between them as the walk towards the main road, they finally hail a taxi before it can really start to come down hard. Sherlock climbs in after John, feeling guilty as ever because of his own beliefs and personal issues. Sherlock had been so set on building a thick enough wall between them that he was now clawing at it.

He wanted to keep John safe from himself. He never wanted John to hate him just because of their conflicting opinions. Sherlock needed to John to know that it didn't matter where they stood and that it was all water under the bridge. What better way to do that than to take John to dinner? Sherlock turns to John with a friendly smile, hoping it looked genuine enough.

"Say John, how about we grab something to eat on our way back to the flat?" Sherlock asks, feeling giddy like a high schooler asking his crush on a date.

"Ooo, I can't tonight," John quickly brushes off, sparing a sheepish gaze over at Sherlock. "I sort of promised a _friend_ we would go out tonight and I can't blow him off again. You understand, don't you?"

"Oh, of course!" Sherlock gushes, cheeks burning as he brushes off John's rejection. "It's fine. We can get dinner some other night. No problem."

"Great," John replies, smiling.

Once they reach 221B, Sherlock is left in the dust as John races up the stairs to get ready for his _date_. At least that's what Sherlock refers to it as. Sherlock doesn't like the overwhelming wave of jealousy he gets at the thought of John going off with someone else and he hates himself for not being able to make himself normal enough for John to accept him.

There is an undeniable attraction Sherlock has for John and it's improved substantially in terms of appropriateness. He's beginning to see John shine through the façade of his boyhood, but he knows he still has a ways to go. He still thinks of John as a kid, still sees him that way, but when the blonde's intelligence blooms, Sherlock is able to see John for who he is now.

All of this progress doesn't seem to matter though when John floats down the stairs, ready for his date, to ask Sherlock for his opinion.

"How do I look?" John inquires, twirling around like an amateur model.

He was wearing a black and white striped jumper, much like the one he wore as a child, and had on tight fitting jeans to accentuate and compliment his body. _Oh yes,_ Sherlock thought. _He's definitely going on a date_. And even as Sherlock became aware of this, all he could see was little John skipping around the jungle gym. Sherlock swallows thickly.

"I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead," Sherlock admires, realizing what he's said. "Or, you know."

"You think so?" John feels the urge to ask further.

"Absolutely."

"Thanks," John says, walking over to peck Sherlock on the cheek tenderly.

The older man flushes bodily, hoping that his body won't betray him to the point of inappropriate embarrassment. Sherlock's brain can't work fast enough to process just how amazingly indulgent it feels to have John's lips press against his cheek bone or how his long hedgehog nose pokes the corner of his eye.

"Make sure you eat something tonight. You haven't eaten _all day_ ," John reminds him in a concerned tone. He stares at Sherlock for a long moment, clasping his shoulder ardently before making his escape. "I don't know when I'll be back, so don't wait up for me!"

Sherlock is left standing at the base of the stairs with a forlorn expression written across his face as he realizes he'll do just the opposite of that.

He doesn't eat after John leaves, not even when Mrs. Hudson comes by with something she wiped up earlier in the day when they were gone, bless her heart. Sherlock's appetite died the moment John kissed him on the cheek and he couldn't stop recalling it even well into the evening.

It still burned from where John's lips touched the skin and no degree of experiments or composing could derail him from the inappropriate thoughts clouding his better judgment. Not even his nicotine patches could center him long enough to will the impure notions away, leaving him to pace aimlessly through their flat. Sherlock eventually came to stop at the fireplace for a breather.

He lets his attention rest on his skull for a few long seconds before they drift over the mantle to spy the snapshot John had shown him once before. The one with thirteen year old John and his lanky friend. His gaze lingers solely on John, soaking up the bewitching sight of such beauty in it's prime. Oh, the guilt that consumes him into shamefulness is nearly maddening and it fuels Sherlock into picking up the framed picture.

Once Sherlock has it in his grasp, he isn't sure what to do with it other than to stare at John's face to mesmerize every aspect of the young boy. Sherlock starts to walk around the flat again without so much as a second thought, running his thumb over John's face until he finds himself in his room.

Sherlock isn't sure how long he sits on the edge of his bed studying the photo of John, but he figures it must have been hours since he can hear exasperated giggling and stumbling outside in the short corridor. He can hear someone slur out _shh_ a few times whenever their companion starts to giggle again.

He knows it's none of his business, but Sherlock walks over to his door and presses his ear against the wood to eavesdrop better. Clearly it's John coming back with his date in what he assumes is the _seeling the deal_ portion, so to speak. There is a loud thump against the wall near Sherlock's door that makes the older man reel back and crawl into his bed.

Sherlock makes it a point to stop listening after that, but after a few minutes over prolonged silence Sherlock begins to hear a faint noise coming from under his door. He doesn't want it to be what he thinks it is, but when he hears the undeniable undulation of moaning, Sherlock can't delude himself fast enough. John was having sex in the room across from his and Sherlock can't help but listen.

The sounds coming from John's room are loud and unabashed as they are eager and enthusiastic. Sherlock tries to counterbalance this with the framed photo of John but it only makes things worse.

Much to his shame, and chagrin, Sherlock's body starts to get a reaction as the moaning couples with the image of young John. In seconds flat, Sherlock's erection is straining against his bedclothes, begging for any type of contact. No, he's stronger than this. Sherlock is better than yielding to his bodily desires. He won't let _it_ beat him.

But even as he tries to reinforce this idea, he ultimately can't escape his own arousal. In an act of pure shame and jealousy, Sherlock rolls over onto his stomach, laying the picture beside him so he can clutch at his pillow and shamelessly grind his hips into the mattress while concentrating on John.

Sherlock's last remaining shred of self-control deteriorates and he starts humping his hard on roughly into the soft fabric of his bed, praying for a quick release. Sherlock claws at the image of John, panting from shame filled exertion as he imagines John underneath him. Lithe body composed of thin but wiry limbs as he squirms and moans for more with that mop of blonde hair mussed against his sheets.

He can picture young John now whining from the ache of taking a grown man inside his small body and how gently and tenderly he would treat John during his first time. He would make John moan so much louder than his date, that much was certain. Sherlock can taste John's lips now as he would claim them in a passionate kiss and he can imagine how beautifully flushed he would be. Sherlock reaches down to palm at his cock trapped between his body and the mattress and he knows it's over.

Sherlock comes harshly into his underwear to the picture of John and the moaning across the way, stammering out choked up gasps. He slips the framed picture underneath his other pillow as an after thought before he curls in on himself while still clutching to his pillow. Even the orgasmic high of his release couldn't last long enough to disguise Sherlock's gut wrenching shame.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Sherlock can still hear John moaning from his room as he lays there in his soiled underwear as the guilt consumes him. If Sherlock's control could slip this easily, he wondered, what else was he capable of? Sherlock didn't even want to think about it. So he didn't. Instead he buries his face into his pillow and tries to forget this ever happened.

In the moments that follow after, Sherlock falls asleep crying.


	7. Here And Now

Sherlock awoke the next morning feeling stiff and groggy. He had fallen asleep relatively fast the night before, but it felt as if he hadn't slept at all with the horrible things he dreamt up last night. He could only make out the vague silhouette of scared and motionless children, knowing he was the one responsible for making them that way.

Just then his stomach turns a little too much on the side of sour and Sherlock figures he doesn't need to eat breakfast after all. He rubs lazily at his eyes to clear away the fogginess of sleep and rolls over slowly, flinging his arms out to the side of his head. Sherlock curls his arms underneath his pillow behind his head, knocking his knuckles against a picture frame as he stretches his body out.

For a moment Sherlock furrows his brow line in confusion and curiosity, pulling the object out from under his pillow leisurely. It takes his vision a few seconds to focus correctly and when it does the events from the night before comes flooding back. Sherlock had almost forgotten about the picture of John he took from the mantle.

He poises the framed photo above himself and holds it well back to give it a nice long look, noting for the first time just how beautiful and perfect John was... Still is. He barely notices the boy standing next to John. Sherlock lets his arm drop back down to the bed as he throws his other arm over his face in shame, groaning from stiff muscles and a bad conscience.

He doesn’t want to get up, but he knows he can’t just lie around all day wallowing in self-hatred. Behavior like that wasn’t productive at all and John would be coming round to his room constantly to ask if he’s fine, which he isn’t, and that’s really the last thing Sherlock needs. John’s sympathy.

After last night Sherlock deserves to be hanged for all the dirty things he imagined about little John Watson. Actually, death would be too good for him. Sherlock knew he deserved worse than that. Yesterday had been such a trainwreck of emotion and personal issues that Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if John only brought someone home last night just to wind him up. Serves him right either way. Not that it mattered much since John was too old for his liking anyway.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Sherlock should be feeling an overwhelming sense of nausea, but all he can feel is jealousy as he remembers the noises John made last night. Noises that _someone else_ coaxed out of John and _not him_. Sherlock knew he should be scolding himself right now, but all he can do is bury his face in his pillow as he slowly heats up with rage. The mere thought of someone other than him laying a hand on John’s perfect skin infuriates him.

As sick as it sounds, Sherlock had dibs first ever since that day at the park. It wasn’t something he was proud of, and he really ought to find a better way to word that, but he wanted John for himself. Even now that he was grown up, Sherlock still found him curiously appealing and it tore him up inside for feeling this way. All those years he spent in isolation to better himself down the drain and out the window.

Perhaps he never changed at all during his time in voluntary exile from the world. Maybe he was never going to be well from the sickness tainting his otherwise brilliant brain and living with John didn’t help either. He doesn’t know why he’s still here or why he’s allowing himself to get sucked back into this unhealthy lifestyle. But Sherlock is affected by something much stronger than himself and he feels a great sense of obligation towards John.

Like he needs to come clean to John about himself and his intentions. But how does he even come close to bringing that up in casual conversation? _Hey, John. I just wanted to let you know that I’m a pedophile and all those years ago when you were a child I wanted to molest you, but I am trying get better… Want go out to dinner with me and see where it leads?_

Yeah… Sherlock seriously doubts John would go for that…

Especially after yesterday’s case. John obviously had no mercy for men like Sherlock or Anthony Jenkins. Then again, Anthony Jenkins had no self control or remorse for his actions, whereas Sherlock was sickened by himself on a daily basis and _never_ touched a child in his life despite his urges and his vivid imagination. Sherlock isn’t saying that that is any less threatening to society, but at least he knows right from wrong and doesn’t romanticize the reality of the situation.

He’s as sick as Anthony Jenkins, but Sherlock is in control of it. He’s dealing with it one day at a time and Sherlock likes to believe that he’s making progress even when he has those days where he feels as if he’s slipping. It may not seem like it, but John wasn’t the only one he ever looked at. There have been other children over the years, before John, that came and went, but John Watson was the only one he had ever engaged in conversation.

Sherlock didn’t know what that meant. John was the only kid he ever approached or came close to losing control over and he had to wonder why that was. Why had John been so special to him after all these years?

All Sherlock can think about is that if he were a weak man that he would’ve given into temptation and little John Watson’s innocence would’ve been spoiled. John’s life would’ve been ruined and he wouldn’t be who he is today. He would’ve destroyed everything John is. His smile, laugh, sense of humor… All the things that make John beautiful could have been taken away without a second thought if Sherlock was a different man.

And that scares the shit out of him.

After a few more moments, Sherlock rolls out of bed with the intent of returning the framed picture of John and his childhood friend to it’s rightful place on the mantle before John can realize it’s missing because Sherlock really doesn’t feel like explaining why he had it in the first place right now. He just wants a nice hot cup of tea to take his mind off of trivial matters like that.

No _what if’s_ , no dirty thoughts that make his stomach churn… Just a hot cup of tea and a quiet afternoon to work out all the twisted kinks of his _charmed_ existence. So Sherlock throws on his robe and tucks the framed picture in the belt to conceal it in the case that John is already awake. Which he doubts since he hasn’t heard any telltale sounds of pattering feet or clinking of glasses, but Sherlock can’t be too careful.

He tiptoes out of his room and shuts the door with a soft click, padding into the living room of the flat so he can poke his head out to see if the coast is clear. His eyes quickly scan the area, seeing no one in sight, before he sneaks over towards the fireplace. Sherlock produces the picture from his robe belt and carefully sets it back on the mantle, vaguely caressing John as he does.

“I can’t believe John still has that,” a tired, yet meek, voice calls from behind Sherlock.

Sherlock is snapped out of his musings, blushing a deep crimson as he spins around to see a lanky man standing in the middle of the room. He has a mop of brown curls and pale skin and Sherlock instantly recognizes him. It’s the other boy from John’s picture in the flesh, yawning and rubbing the sleep away from his eyes so he can take in the sight of Sherlock properly.

The young man walks over towards Sherlock by the fireplace and picks up the photo, oblivious to the warmth that still lingers from when Sherlock had concealed it in his robe. A sleepy lopsided smile tugs at the corner of the man’s mouth as his eyes dance over the memory.

“Out of all the pictures he chooses this one,” the young man says with a soft chuckle, reminiscing.

“It was taken a few months after his mum’s death,” Sherlock points out, recalling what John had told him about it. “You were his only friend back then. It was the only thing that got him through one of the most difficult times of his life.”

The man considers this, smiles again, then places the picture back on the mantle and turns to Sherlock.

“You must be Sherlock. John talks about you all the time.” The man holds out a hand towards him and introduces himself. “I'm Andy.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock says slowly, taking Andy’s hand. “You’re John’s _boyfriend_.”

“I wouldn't say boyfriend,” Andy gushes, shying away from Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“But you slept with him,” Sherlock states matter-of-fact, jealousy prevalent in his tone.

“Having sex with someone doesn’t mean you’re together,” Andy tells him, quickly adding, “Not that I wouldn’t want a relationship with John. We just have different priorities. I have my job and, well, John has you.”

“Surely John’s main priority is getting into uni at the moment,” Sherlock says to remain humble by Andy’s keen observation.

“John hardly ever studies anymore and he’s always talking about you and your cases,” Andy informs, sounding a tad bit hurt and jealous. “It isn’t everyday John drops everything he loves just to spend time with you. He likes you a lot, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn't know whether he should feel honored with that statement or terrible. Sure, he wanted John to like him and Sherlock enjoyed spending time with John, but he didn’t mean for John to abandon his dream in order to get his way. Following in Sherlock’s line of work wasn’t the best lifestyle for someone as ambitious as John and Sherlock would be damned if John threw away his bright future.

“Then he should know he’s barking up the wrong tree,” Sherlock states, discouraging the possibility of John actually falling in love with him. “John doesn’t have a chance with someone like me because I could never possibly love him back.”

“I don’t know whether I should pity you or envy you,” Andy says with a good-natured chuckle.

“Give it time,” Sherlock encourages even though it kills him to do so. “John will come round and see that it’s always been you he’s wanted.”

It’s clear that the young man doesn’t believe a word of this, but he respects Sherlock for at least _trying_.

“Thanks for the sentiment, but I think that ship has long since sailed,” Andy smirks much to his chagrin. “Besides, I think he’s into older men by default.”

They stand there in comfortable silence, a little awkward considering that last comment, but content nonetheless. Sherlock wasn’t lying when he said he’d rather see John and Andy together, as much as he couldn’t stand not having John for himself, mostly because John was better off without Sherlock. He hates the fact that he takes advantage of John’s affection when John could be perfectly happy with his own age. Someone like Andy.

“I was about to put on the kettle,” Sherlock announces to break the silence. “You want a cuppa?”

“I’d love to, but I kind of have to get going,” Andy sighs, gesturing towards the general location of the exit. “I have work in a couple of hours. Next time.”

“Sure.”

Andy looks at the photo one last time and back to Sherlock, smiling vaguely.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Sherlock,” Andy yawns, stretching a little as he begins to pad away towards the hall.

“And you,” Sherlock acknowledges fleetingly.

Once Sherlock is certain Andy has left the room he turns his gaze back towards the photo to stroke a finger over the cooling glass. You know, just so he can look that more incriminating if someone were to walk in on him. Sherlock knew John was attracted to him and he didn’t need Andy to tell him that. Sherlock had seen all the telltale signs on multiple occasions, but John’s promiscuity made it difficult to believe it was more than an infatuation.

But that was to be expected, because who could ever love someone like Sherlock? Even though Sherlock has always been in control and never laid a finger on a child in a provocative manner or with ulterior motives, his illness was still frowned upon. He could be the holiest of saints, but it still didn’t change the fact that he was a pedophile. He swallowed thickly at the thought of the word. It wasn’t a word he liked to use to describe himself even if it was accurate, because Sherlock knew he was more than that.

But it didn’t matter what he thought or knew about himself. All that mattered was how others perceived him, how John might perceive him if he ever found out. And, as much as Sherlock feared it, that might be sooner rather than later whether it be of his own guilt or being caught in a compromising situation like he almost was.

Sherlock shakes his head and ruffles his mussed curls to shake away the bad vibes as he makes his way into the kitchen. He rifles through the cabinet under the sink, producing the kettle with an elated _ah-ha!_ and goes to set it in the sink to fill it up with hot water. Sherlock yawns as he waits patiently for the water to heat up a little, closing his eyes as he deeply inhales then exhales to calm his nerves.

This is just what he needs right now, Sherlock thinks as he shuts off the tap and sets the kettle on the stovetop, switching the bottom right burner on. The kettle is making a high-pitched whistling noise in no time at all and Sherlock settles in with his tea and a newspaper, brought in by Mrs. Hudson most likely, to see what’s going on in the world today. Not particularly paying close attention to possible cases, but getting the gist of it all.

Sherlock hears a light rapping of knuckles against wood and folds down the top of his newspaper to see John’s bed head peering past the doorway.

“Is there room enough for one more?” John asks with a lopsided smile.

“Kettle’s just boiled,” Sherlock informs, gesturing towards the steaming pot on the countertop. “Grab a cuppa and have a seat.”

John treads sluggishly into the kitchen and makes his way over to the kettle. Sherlock notices right away that John isn’t wearing any pajamas or clothing aside from the obligatory pair of revealing tight underwear securing his more private parts. Sherlock feels his pulse gradually pick up from the inviting sight and tries to wash down the lump in his throat with a gulp of scolding hot tea. Sherlock nearly chokes on his drink when John has to stretch his lean body to it’s full length in order to reach a clean mug on the top shelf.

He almost feels compelled to walk over there and give John a hand, but refrains from doing what he wants because what he usually wants is wrong. Sherlock studies the muscles of John’s back over the edge of his newspaper as the younger man fixes his cup of tea to his liking. It’s in this moment that he realizes John has back dimples that peek out just above the low hanging waistband of his form fitting underwear. God, does that pair of underwear look two sizes too small. Almost as if it’s deliberate.

“Find anything interesting?” John inquires as he walks over to the table to sit across from Sherlock, blowing at his tea to cool it down.

Sherlock’s eyes snap immediately back to the article he had abandoned the moment John walked in and tries to sound as casual as possible.

“Not yet,” Sherlock replies, clearing his throat so as not to risk his voice cracking from nervousness. “But there’s always bound to be something.”

John’s lips are still pursed as he blows more steam away from his cup and nods in understanding. After a moment of silence, John finally takes a sip of his tea, sighing with content as the warm liquid washes down his throat in a smooth wave. Sherlock tries to ignore the soft little moan that escapes John’s throat unabashed.

“Looks like you were right about Anthony Jenkins’ murderer after all,” John tells Sherlock, cradling his mug with both hands. “It was one of the mothers.”

Sherlock acknowledges John’s comment by looking over the top of the newspaper. John makes a vague gesture towards the side facing away from Sherlock and Sherlock folds the paper back to read the headline. Sherlock knows he should be ecstatic about being right once again, but how can he? Sherlock wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole situation.

Anthony Jenkins was a terrible man who probably got what he deserved, but murder was also a heinous act that couldn’t go unpunished under any circumstances, right or wrong. But there’s a part of Sherlock that wishes he would’ve turned a blind eye. If anything, Sherlock might have inadvertently caused more trauma towards the victim by taking their mother away. He could’ve easily lied to Lestrade and the Detective Inspector would’ve been none the wiser.

But life wasn’t that black and white and no one ever said this job would be easy.

Everything has consequences.

“I still don’t understand how someone can do things like that to children,” John adds, not directly addressing Sherlock but thinking out loud. He shakes his head in disbelief as his browline creases with a mixture of disgust and worry. “How can anyone put a child in an adult situation like that without any remorse?”

“Anthony Jenkins was a sick man, John. He was seriously ill with a disorder he had no say in,” Sherlock reminds the young man, setting down his newspaper carefully and letting his voice soften a bit. “People like him don’t have a choice in what they desire.”

“Yeah, well, he certainly had a choice in whether or not to act on those desires, didn’t he?” John snaps back, angry by Sherlock’s incessant need to defend a child molester. “Next you’ll be telling me Jenkins is the real victim.”

“Nothing can atone for what Jenkins did. His actions are his own,” Sherlock agrees, gauging John’s reaction to this. “I’m just saying no one asks to be this way. It’s the single most depraved thing you could ever be and it never gets easier. It’s a sickness you live with day to day and even when you forget it’s there for the briefest moment, it sits there festering in the back of your mind until it has the chance to rear it’s vile little head again. Can you imagine how that must feel? Knowing how wrong you are and not being able to do anything about it? Do you, John?”

John just gawks at Sherlock with wide eyes, staring in disbelief because he doesn’t know what to say to that. Sherlock seemed rather opinionated on the matter, almost as if it hit close to home, but John couldn't be certain. He had never seen Sherlock so heated during one of his rants, so much so that even Sherlock seemed shocked by his own outburst.

Sherlock doesn’t know why he’s saying these things, really just a heat of the moment kind of thing, but now he knows he can’t stop. He’s fully committed to his little rant and he supposes now is about as good as any other time to finally come clean to John about his own illness.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?” John asks timidly, having never heard Sherlock raise his voice before.

“I'm afraid not, John. I’m far from being _okay_ ,” Sherlock answers truthfully, noting the way John’s eyebrows come together in concern. “I’m ill, John.”

“What do you mean? Why haven’t you told me? We have to get you to a doctor immediately,” John gushes, springing out of his chair to console Sherlock and obviously getting the wrong idea of what Sherlock means by _ill_.

“No, John… That’s not the type of ill I’m talking about,” Sherlock admits, looking away from John out of shame.

“What do you mean?” John repeats with a shaky voice, kneeling down beside Sherlock to look up into the older man’s face.

_This is it._

It’s now or never and Sherlock couldn’t be more light headed from the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His heart was hammering within his chest like a rabbit in the brief moments before death and he thought he might pass out from how shallowly he was breathing. His throat swells and his hands shake as he licks his too dry lips, swallowing thickly.

“John, there’s something I wish to tell you about myself and I'm scared about what you might think about me when all of this through,” Sherlock begins as a precaution for the bombshell that’s about to inevitably come.

Sherlock looks John directly in the eyes, on the verge of tears, and takes the ultimate plunge.

“I'm a pedophile, John,” Sherlock confesses, voice cracking as he does, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

John doesn’t say anything for the longest moment, choosing only to stare in disbelief with this new information. Eventually John smiles and chuckles in a way that can only be described as hysterical and Sherlock’s frown deepens.

“You’re joking right? You’re just having a go, winding me up?” John inquires with panicked hysteria. His face instantly contorts into a deep scowl of disgust as he slowly raises back to his feet. “Well, I must say that’s not funny, Sherlock, and I find that to be extremely vulgar and in _very_ poor taste considering recent turn of events.”

“I'm serious, John,” Sherlock affirms much to his and John’s disdain. Sherlock rises out of his chair to be level with John, looking him in the eye. “I like children. I like how small and delicate and innocent they are. Their soft features, silken hair--”

John slaps Sherlock across the face before he can complete the thought, knocking some sense into the older man as he stares wildly at Sherlock with tears in his eyes.

“Shut the hell up,” John cries with a broken voice, letting the tears well up before finally spilling over.

John doesn’t want to believe it at first, but then a lot things start to fall into perspective for him and start making sense as John dwells longer on it.

“I think I'm gonna be sick,” John heaves, straining to keep himself from throwing up as he gasps for air.

“John, I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was afraid of how you would react,” Sherlock proclaims, coming in close to John to console him with a hand on his back.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you monster!” John yells furiously, jerking away from Sherlock with hate and disgust in his eyes.

“John, please… I'm so sorry,” Sherlock pleads, attempting to engage John once again only to get his hand slapped away.

“Oh, you’re sorry! Did you hear that everyone?” John announces to the non-existent audience. “The child molester is _sorry_!”

“I’m not a child molester!” Sherlock shouts at the top of his lungs, stopping John in the midst of his tirade. “Child molesters are defined by their acts. Pedophiles are defined by their desires…”

His chest his heaving as he tries to calm himself down, struggling to keep the tears from rolling down his face, attempting to remain strong even as John looks at him as if he’s a monster.

“I have _never_ hurt or laid a hand on a child in my life. I would never forgive myself if that were the case,” Sherlock admits, bottom lip quivering as he tries to maintain his last shred of control.

“Then what do you call that day at the park all those years ago, huh?” John persists, calmer now but still angry and confused and on edge. “What the _hell_ was that all about?”

Sherlock’s expression falls short and John smirks ruefully.

“Oh yes, I remember you _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” John accuses with a venomous tone, hurt and betrayal bubbling to the surface. “I remember you had your hands all over me that day, and in front of other parents nonetheless.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sherlock tries to explain, but John isn’t buying it.

“Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t appropriate,” John points out, face beet red. “You have to know that, right?”

“I never would’ve gone through with it,” Sherlock swears in answer to the real question John was dancing around but hadn’t asked.

“Why’s that?” John challenges, sniffling as he tries to compose himself and wipe away the frustrated tears drenching his face. “Too many witnesses or was I not young enough for your liking?”

“No, you were absolutely perfect in every sense of the word and I didn’t want to ruin you,” Sherlock proclaims with a murmur, finally letting the tears stream down his face in shame. “That’s why…”

John stands there in awe of Sherlock’s nerve to openly come out and proclaim himself as a pedophile, and John would be lying if he said he didn’t respect Sherlock for it, but the fact of the matter is is that Sherlock is a pedophile regardless. John’s brain has slowed down substantially as his heart works at the speed of light to supply it with enough blood.

The young man is so gob smacked by the whole situation that he hardly notices it when Sherlock approaches him and cups his face in deceivingly gentle hands. Hands that have _never_ committed any impure act on a minor. Innocent hands, if Sherlock is telling the truth. Sherlock angles his head in such a way so that they are staring at each other and nowhere else.

“John, look at me,” Sherlock pleads softly, voice hoarse from emotion. John does what’s asked of him and humors Sherlock because he doesn’t know what else to do in this moment. “I hate being this way. I’m ashamed by what I am and I would give _anything_ to be normal... To be like you... Please believe me when I say that I never had the intention of hurting anyone. I would die before I let that happen.”

Sherlock leans forward and rests his forehead against John’s, squeezing his eyes shut as his final shred of control flies out the window.

“Please…” Sherlock begs pathetically, overcome with body wrenching sob that wrecks his voice. “Please, will you forgive me, John?”

“I don’t know if I can, Sherlock…” John professes truthfully, voice equally as wrecked.

They stay embraced like this for what feels like the longest time as sherlock murmurs out _please, please, please_ in a soft cadence and it’s almost kind of soothing considering the situation. But eventually, John pulls back because he feels so overwhelmed by everything and takes a few steps away from Sherlock so he can try and process all that’s happened.

He wanted to believe that Sherlock was telling the truth, that he wasn’t a monster like Anthony Jenkins, but there always remained that seed of doubt nestled in the back of John’s mind. And, to be honest, he couldn’t make a decision here and now even if he tried. John needed time to think, time to work through everything Sherlock had told him, and act upon it accordingly.

“Just… leave me alone, okay? Just for a little while,” John assures, feeling obligated to reassure Sherlock regardless of who and what he is.

“I understand,” Sherlock acknowledges, hanging his head down.

“You can still stay here. But I’d rather you keep your distance from me for the time being,” John tells him and it kills him to see Sherlock so devastated.

“Of course,” Sherlock agrees, curling his lips inward to stifle the hurt daring to surface.

“I need to time to think this through. That’s all.”

Sherlock nods in understanding, watching as John unconsciously covers himself up as he begins to make an escape for his bedroom.

“For how long?” Sherlock feels compelled to ask before John’s terms are set in stone.

John turns back to him and shrugs non-committedly.

“Until…” John replies, hating the uncertainty of it.

He’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear, but Sherlock accepts it without another word because it’s what he deserves. Because Sherlock is willing to wait for John’s forgiveness.

Even if that means forever.


	8. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After such a long hiatus, I'm back. I should've done this a lot sooner.

Things were tense around the flat, to say the least. John didn’t bother making excuses in order to avoid Sherlock, which was completely understandable. Sherlock didn’t expect anything from John considering the recent turn of events. He knew John was hurt, confused, and angry and he had every right to be all of those things. Sherlock had no allusions about that. John needed time to process what Sherlock admitted to him and he was willing to keep his distance and wait for as long as necessary if it meant John would forgive him.

Although, even that seemed like a long shot. Sherlock had been earnest in his admission to John, but there was no telling if John would trust his word on the matter. _What must John think of him?_ All Sherlock can picture now is John dwelling on the day at the park and how Sherlock had been so close to him. _How frightening must that be for John to look back on?_ Trying to so hard to remember if Sherlock had touched him inappropriately or not to the point where his memory of the day became so blurry, even he wasn’t sure anymore.

It wasn’t the fear of losing John that made Sherlock so anxious, or the fact that John could kick him out at any moment. What terrified Sherlock more than anything was the guilt. The fear of having ruined John’s life after all like he _could have_ done all those years ago. Sherlock thought that acting upon his urges was bad enough, but even just admitting it seemed to do plenty of damage on it’s own. Now John would be second guessing everything he knew if someone like Sherlock could just be hiding in plain sight.

Sherlock didn’t care what John thought about him, not entirely at least. He was far more concerned about how this news made John _feel_. Of course he was going through all the obvious emotions, but what about the ones that came after? Was he scared of Sherlock? Did he feel betrayed? There was no telling with John, especially when they hardly saw each other anymore despite living together, and Sherlock wasn’t about to ask either. John had told him to leave him alone and Sherlock would respect that for however long he needed to.

He wasn’t used to feeling this anxious. John was the first person he ever told about his condition, although he suspected Mycroft already knew, and Sherlock didn’t know how to deal with the whole situation. All he could do was wait until John finally decided to talk to him again and hopefully they could talk the whole thing out. Sherlock wasn’t about to get his hopes up too much, however. That could be forever away or not happen at all. John could just throw him out tomorrow without a word and that would be that.

The threat of losing his flat didn’t even faze Sherlock much, not only because he didn’t care what happened to him since it’s what he deserved, but rather that John was such a kind person that he would never do something so mean. John might be angry and disgusted by Sherlock, but his heart was too big for his own good. If it had come down to Sherlock having to move out, John would give him time to look for another place before he even considered being so heartless as to force Sherlock into poverty.

It was a kindness Sherlock knew he didn’t deserve and it made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

He tried to stay inside his room as much as possible when he wasn’t out working on a case and the times he did happen to run into John, the younger man never asked how the case was going like he often would before. It was a lot harder trying to stay away from John than Sherlock previously thought. He always had the urge to ask John for a second opinion on the forensic side of cases, but thought better of it right at the last second.

It seemed as though John was also having a hard time. Sherlock would often spy John’s shadow creeping under his door, like he was just standing there waiting for Sherlock to come out or summon up the courage to just open up the door himself. This would happen occasionally and John would wait anywhere from between five to ten minutes before eventually walking away. Every time Sherlock wanted to open up the door and every time he would tell himself _no_.

John may stand at his door from time to time, but he clearly wasn’t ready to face Sherlock or else he would’ve came into his room already and talked to him. It could be he wanted Sherlock to make the first move, but that wasn’t about to happen either. Sherlock was bad at reading signals and he didn’t want to screw things up even more by approaching John prematurely. Then again, it’s been _weeks_ now since Sherlock came clean about himself. Is that still considered premature?

Sherlock wasn’t about to find out.

Things were bad enough as it is and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to not say something stupid. He still hasn’t told him about the night John went on his _date_ and how he stole John’s picture for his own sick needs. It wasn’t something Sherlock was proud of and he didn’t think he could ever bring himself to tell John about that night. Especially since it happened the night before everything went to hell. If John knew Sherlock pleasured himself to an old picture of him, that would be the final straw for the blonde.

Maybe that was selfish of him, but that wasn’t important anyway. Sherlock was sure that John could piece two and two together. It’s had to have crossed his mind at least once by now. He wondered how that made John feel. Did it disgust him? Did it confuse him? How was he supposed to feel about it? Could he even imagine Sherlock abusing himself to the thought of him as a child? It made Sherlock feel guilty beyond comprehension to think that John was having a difficult time trying to decide what to do about the whole situation.

It wasn’t a secret that John had feelings for Sherlock to some degree, though Sherlock couldn’t tell you why exactly, and Sherlock felt something for John as well. It made this even more complicated to deal with. Sherlock knew it would ultimately be decided by John. There was no other way. Whatever John ended up wanting, whether he told Sherlock to leave or stay, Sherlock would respect his wishes no matter how much it hurt. He was more concerned about John than himself at this point. He didn’t care what happened to him, even if John did.

Perhaps Sherlock should’ve just left on his own terms instead of putting John through even more turmoil. He could have been the bigger man for once and walked away so John could go back to having a normal life. Going out with people his own age and worrying about school work instead of thinking about how disgusting Sherlock is. He’s already been through so much and he’s only nineteen. How much more shit did Sherlock have to put the kid through before he caught a break?

There was no telling if this would even work out if John decided Sherlock could stay. Sherlock couldn’t see this working. He would try his best, no doubt about that, but there wasn’t a happy ending to all of this. Of that, Sherlock was certain. But maybe this time he was wrong? Maybe it _could_ be different? He’s been wrong in the past before, though he won’t admit it to people like Lestrade and Mycroft, but this wasn’t the same.

Sherlock’s tried to make himself a better person on his own before. He’s tried denying his urges, going so far as to date people his own age, but that always ended swiftly and not on good terms. He hasn’t been on a date in three years now, never been remotely interested in anyone, until he met John again. Sure, John was still relatively young compared to Sherlock, but it was an age gap that was socially accepted because John isn’t a minor anymore.

Perhaps Sherlock’s attempts to _cure_ himself didn’t work out because he was doing it alone. He never told previous partners in the past about himself, let alone _clicked_ with them like he did John. It could just be that John was the missing piece to a puzzle he’d been searching for. Either that, or he was still living in the past. Sherlock couldn’t really tell anymore, to be honest, and he really shouldn’t get his hopes up. John might just yell at him and tell Sherlock to get lost at any moment.

It’s been three days since Sherlock has actually _seen_ John. He only left his room when he knew John was out because he couldn’t stand to see the disappointed look he would get. He’s just been moping around in bed mostly, giving John his space and generally protecting the world from himself. That must have worried someone, because there was a knock at his door that afternoon.

Mrs. Hudson has been round to his room plenty of times, looking after him because he didn’t care enough to do it himself. She knew him and John weren’t talking to each other right now, though she didn’t know the details, and would often bring him something to eat or just check up on him. So Sherlock rolled out of bed and trudged his way to his door, which remained unlock in hope that John would finally decide to come in, and greeted Mrs. Hudson with a fake smile.

But it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson standing there with a tray of biscuits and tea.

“Hi,” John said, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, unable to meet John’s eyes.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” John admitted, pretending like this wasn’t the most awkward thing in the world. “I haven’t seen you in days and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock lied, feeling his heart break ever so slightly.

“I wasn’t sure if you had… Well…” John trailed off, not knowing how to word it elegantly enough. “You know…”

Sherlock knew what John was trying to say and it made him feel even worse than before. Sure, John was pissed off at him and hurt, but the thought of Sherlock doing something _that_ drastic still terrified John. He didn’t want to have to see another person he cared about slip away from him indefinitely. John didn’t particularly like the news Sherlock shared with him, but he would never wish Sherlock harm.

“I wouldn’t do something so selfish to you. I'm sorry for worrying you,” Sherlock apologized. He lowered his head in remorse. “I only meant to give you some space. I figured the best way to do that would to just stay out of your way.”

“Right,” John said shortly, feeling a bit guilty. He looked Sherlock up and down, taking in the sight of him. He was still in his pajamas, his hair was a mess, and his cheekbones stuck out even more. He looked pale, sickly even, on top of that. “You don’t look well.”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock repeated, voice cracking a little despite his best efforts.

“Sherlock…” John sighed, the worry heavy in his tone. He was like a parent disappointed because their child was lying. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock shrugged with honesty. He really couldn’t remember.

“You have to take care of yourself,” John asserted, getting heated just at the thought of Sherlock giving up entirely.

“I haven’t had much of an appetite,” Sherlock excused lamely. He got a disapproving look from John that only made him feel worse. “I swear, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” John insisted. “You can’t just waste away in your room.”

“It’s what I deserve, isn’t it?” Sherlock posed, unable to stop the choked up words.

It wasn’t supposed to sound so self-pitying or illicit guilt out of John. He wasn’t fishing for sympathy because he didn’t deserve any, especially not from John, but he couldn’t stop himself. He dared a glance up at John, noticing a faint expression of shame. He wanted to reach out and console John, but he restrained himself. John was worried about him, but Sherlock wasn’t about to take that as a sign to invade his personal space.

“Don’t,” Sherlock spoke, not meeting John’s gaze. “Don’t you go feeling sorry for me. I won’t allow it.”

“Someone has to,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest.

He shuffled on his feet a little. John knew how he was supposed to feel about Sherlock and what he was, but his brain was conflicting with what his heart was telling him. It was hard to hate Sherlock, given that John has had so much time to bond with the man and get to know him. Sherlock was a _good_ man despite what people said about him. He was clever and genuine and he tried to do what was right. True, he could be a real wanker towards people’s feelings and a little too clever at times, but he wasn’t the _monster_ John had hoped he was.

It would have made trying to hate him a lot easier if that were the case.

But as John stood in Sherlock’s bedroom doorway and took in the sight of Sherlock at his lowest point, John couldn’t help but feel pity for the man. He may not conform to social norms, but he was still a human being with feelings. He could bleed and cry just like anyone else. John had been too blinded by his own emotions to realize that when Sherlock bared himself. Sherlock had trusted him with his secret and told him the truth. That had to count for something, right?

“I’ve been thinking and I really want to talk with you Sherlock,” John told him. “There’s some things we need to discuss. Can I come in?”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Sherlock asked him, gauging John’s reaction.

“I'm not afraid to be alone with you,” John stated frankly.

“Then by all means,” Sherlock conceded, stepping aside to let John inside his room.

The blinds were drawn, but it was bright enough outside that the room was still moderately illuminated by the afternoon sun. John looked around haphazardly, trying to see if there was anything out of the ordinary he should be worried about. He didn’t really know what he was looking for exactly, but everything seemed normal enough. Just a messy bed and files scattered around from cases Sherlock was investigating. At least he was still working. That was good to know.

John went to go sit down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and waited patiently for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock left the door to his room open and made his way over to John who gazed at him expectantly. He stood there for a moment, as if waiting for John to tell him it was okay, until the young man patted the spot next to him. Sherlock would blush if the circumstances were different, but he tried not to let himself get carried away. Sherlock sat down next to John with a decent amount of space between them and stared straight ahead as he waited for John to say something.

"I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly," John began, taking a deep breath to try and steady himself. This wasn’t exactly easy for him, but it needed to be said. He needed to know. " _Why_ did you approach me on the playground all those years ago?"

The question took Sherlock by surprise. Sherlock wasn’t expecting that, then again he didn’t know what to expect. It prompted Sherlock to pivot towards John and give him an imploring look. John didn’t move. He just stared blankly at the window as he waited for an explanation. Sherlock turned away from John, not knowing where to start or what to say.

"I don't know,” Sherlock offered, at a loss for words.

John sighed, almost as if he was disappointed with the response, making Sherlock feel terrible all over again. Sherlock didn’t say anything for a few moments after that as he took his time to collect his thoughts. There was no easy way of telling John the truth, so he figured he might as well just take the plunge. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I just saw you running around, playing by yourself. I saw how happy you were in that moment despite being alone," Sherlock divulged, recalling the day at the park as if it were yesterday. There's a forlorn undertone to Sherlock's voice in contrast to the brief smile he lets slip at the memory. "I remember you falling down and scraping your knee and how _hurt_ you looked."

He saw John turn his head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the young man. John stared at him with a perplexed expression, eyebrows furrowing as he waited intently for Sherlock to continue. Hearing Sherlock tell him about that day from his perspective was cathartic, bringing back all kinds of memories he thought he’d forgotten.

"You looked _right_ at me and I didn't know what to do,” Sherlock explained, sounding choked up. “It's like you were asking for help. I couldn’t just leave you there all alone."

He exhaled slowly and glanced over at John to see the young man’s eyes shimmering with barely contained tears. It made Sherlock’s heart stammer for a few seconds as he imagined little John Watson clutching at his bloody knee with that same exact expression. How beautiful he had been that day. Sherlock felt like he was infringing on his shame by reliving the memory. He hung his head when he couldn’t stand to meet John’s judging face anymore.

"That's all I wanted to do. I just wanted to help,” Sherlock admitted, on the verge of crying himself. “I needed to know that I could be a normal person and do some good.”

The expression on John’s face was a mix of compassion and bewilderment as Sherlock bared his soul to him. It made John feel like total crap for yelling at him before without even considering Sherlock’s side of the story. But what could he say? The confession caught him by surprise and John had been scared and hurt by someone he had held in high regard. But now… John couldn’t bring himself to feel those things towards Sherlock.

"You could've easily kept it to yourself. But you told me,” John pointed out, admiring Sherlock’s honesty.

"You deserve the truth,” Sherlock said.

“Am I the first person you’ve told?” John inquired, scooting closer to Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock revealed, letting out a shaky breath to calm himself down. He wasn’t going to cry, dammit. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

“Hey, hey…” John cooed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders while his free hand went to rest on his leg in a tender gesture. “All that matters is that you were brave enough to tell me when you did. If anything, I should be saying sorry.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Sherlock assured, shuddering at how close and soft John’s voice was.

“Neither have you,” John consoled.

He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock’s back, getting more comfortable and bold around the other man when he finally stopped and realized Sherlock was no different from himself. He was warm and breathing and hurting just like anyone else in his position would. Sherlock wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t Anthony Jenkins. Not everything was black and white. Most of the time it was just one big grey area and John understood that now.

“I'm sorry for all the things I said to you,” John apologized, hoping to make amends. “I was just so _angry_ and _upset_. I didn’t know what to think. To be honest, I still don’t. But I believe you when you say you haven’t done anything wrong. That day at the park proves that…”

“John…”

“You helped me when I needed you the most. Now let me help _you_ ,” John proclaimed.

That was it. That was the breaking point for Sherlock. He could no longer hold in all the emotions bubbling up inside him and let the tears roll down his too thin face as John opened his arms to Sherlock in forgiveness. John was overwhelmed as Sherlock buried his face into his neck and held onto him tightly, crying silently as they embraced. It was Sherlock at his most vulnerable and it sincerely shattered John’s heart to see the older man so broken up.

He shouldn’t have waited so long to talk to Sherlock. Who knows what hell he’s been through the past few weeks? Barely eating as he slept his problems away or kept himself up all night working on cases. John should’ve been there for him sooner. John didn’t even want to think about what would’ve happened to Sherlock if he hadn’t knocked on his door when he did. If he had waited one more week…

“We’re going to get through this. Together, Sherlock. Do you hear me?” John promised as his eyes started to sting with tears. He started to rock back and forth with Sherlock in his arms, comforting him like baby as he murmured sweet words in his ear. “And we’re going to start by getting some food in you. Not just greasy take away, either. I'm talking a full-course meal at the most elitist, snobby restaurant you can think of. I’ll drag you kicking and screaming if I have to.”

“It sounds like I’m in no position to argue,” Sherlock hiccuped, laughing through his choked up sobbing.

“You’re really not,” John quipped, joining in with his own frantic laughter. He pulled away from Sherlock and gave him a warm, hopeful smile. “How about you go get dressed and I'll take care of the reservation?”

There was so much love and compassion in John’s teary eyes that Sherlock almost felt guilty for accepting his forgiveness. He wasn’t about to let himself ruin this, however. This was his one chance to make things right and he wasn’t going to screw it up. Besides, he’s tortured himself long enough already and a nice hot meal seemed like the perfect starting point on his road to recovery. It also helped knowing he didn’t have to go it alone. Not anymore.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck around and waited for my dumb ass to actually update this.


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